


that this world brought me to you now (and didn't wait)

by rhinemannultra



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: ADHD, Adoption, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Childbirth, Chronic Pain, Comedy of Errors, Disability, Dyslexia, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Families of Choice, Fatherhood, Happy Ending, Hedge Witch Eliot Waugh, Hedge Witch Margo Hanson, Kid Fic, Learning Disabilities, M/M, Miscommunication, Missed Connections, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Unconventional Families, Weddings, a fic about two complicated and tender people with complicated and tender feelings on family, alice is running the library, brakebills but no beast/fillory/monster/etc., eliot still uses his s4e13 cane bc im forever bitter they took that away from us, fen's a social worker, graphic depictions of childbirth, julia's dean of brakebills, just quentin and eliot stumbling their way into parenting & into each other's lives & then into love, margo is the leader of a coven, parenting, set in portland, the fen/margo and julia/kady are background but still very present, the queliot single dads parent trap fic you've all been waiting for!, wedding planner eliot waugh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23275927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhinemannultra/pseuds/rhinemannultra
Summary: "It's not every day your best friend becomes a father," Julia murmurs, resting her head against his shoulder, and something in his heart just-breaks.Repair of small objects,he thinks, like a lighthouse, like a lifeline.Just a minor mending."Okay. If we're really doing this, then start back at the beginning," Julia says, simple as anything. "And tell me everything."&&&“Eliot,” Fen says, finally. “She’s already home.""Please tell me you don't mean," Eliot says, sounding desperate, a little strung out. "Fuck, Fen, if you mean what I think you mean, I can't-""She's yours," Fen whispers, and Eliot's eyes turn wild with that fresh kind of love, startled and newborn, shaky on its legs. He gazes down at the child in his arms like she's his whole universe, like he always knew he would end up here, like he's scared out of his damn mind, like he never saw it coming.(or: eliot fosters a baby. quentin makes one. life is messy, but family is the thing you choose with your heart and build with your hands.)(eliot & quentin wind up in each other's orbits anyway- in this universe, just like any other.)
Relationships: Eliot Waugh & Julia Wicker, Fen & Eliot Waugh, Fen/Margo Hanson, Kady Orloff-Diaz/Julia Wicker, Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Alice Quinn, Quentin Coldwater & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 66
Kudos: 110





	1. something good is going to happen (and i don't know when)

**Author's Note:**

> this fic already means more to me than anything else i've ever written, so if you're reading this, thank you. i hope you'll find something in it. i know i did.
> 
> dedicated to (loving) parents everywhere, biological or otherwise. the ones who are partnered and the ones who are on their own, the ones who gave birth and the ones who didn't, the ones who have known their children from birth and the ones who met them later on, the ones who always knew this was what they wanted and the ones who stumbled into it by surprise, the siblings and aunts and uncles and grandparents and relatives who have stepped in to fill a larger role, those who have lost children and those who haven't found theirs yet.
> 
> work title from "little flaws" by lady lamb. chapter title from "cloudbusting" by kate bush because hale appleman loves kate bush and this fact will forever warm my heart. this fic is sponsored by the moment in s4e8 where poppy asks quentin if he thinks he'll ever be a dad and he replies "i hope so." i still can't think about that moment without getting angry, so i wrote this instead.
> 
> side note: as someone with her state's department of human services page on adoption both bookmarked and memorized by heart, i am super aware that the adoption process as it's portrayed in this fic is neither realistic nor true to life. but real life doesn't have magic, and i'm a 20 year old lesbian writing feel-good found-family fanfiction, not a social worker, so i'm alright with bending the rules to an extent here, and lucky for me, so is fen.

**FEN, NEARLY NINE YEARS AGO. NOVEMBER. BROOKLYN, NY.**

She drops her keys three times trying to get the door to the apartment unlocked.

“Hey, hey, little one, shh. It’s alright,” she murmurs, but the wailing newborn clearly isn’t buying it, which Fen supposes is fair. She’s had a hell of a day, brought headfirst screaming into a world that is bright and loud and cold, five weeks before anyone was expecting her. 

Still.

“I know you have no concept of time yet,” Fen whispers, tucking the baby closer to her chest and shifting the veritable mountain of case files under her other arm. “But it’s nearly three in the morning, and the last thing Eliot and Margo need is another noise complaint, sweetheart. I’m afraid you’re gonna have to work with me here.”

The baby snuffles a shaky breath, quieting for a moment and blinking up at Fen. She’s wrestled one arm loose from the blanket the nurse had wrapped around her, and Fen watches as her tiny hand twitches, as she closes her little fingers into a fist. 

It’s exactly three seconds before she screws her face up, inhales, and unleashes a keening cry so loud for a person with such tiny lungs that Fen would probably find it impressive, if it were happening anywhere other than outside the apartment door she can’t seem to get open at three in the fucking morning. 

“God, Margo, where the fuck are you,” Fen whispers, giving the bottom of the door a firm knock with one of the two limbs she has free, her Chelsea boot leaving a wet smear on the wood from where the sole is caked with dirty November snow. It might be more of a kick than a knock, really, all things considered, but hey, desperate times. 

She hears footsteps inside, a muttered _“-Swear to Lindsay fucking Lohan if she loses her keys one more time,”_ the familiar sounds of the deadbolt turning and the shielding wards being dispelled.

“Honey, I’m home?” Fen squeaks out, offering a nervous smile. She props her armful of paperwork a bit higher on her hip, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as the baby in her arms thrashes in a futile attempt at escape.

Margo blinks at her from the doorway, wrapped in a silk bathrobe. Fen had thought she might be asleep already, but judging by the bottle of asafoetida in her left hand and the PDF printout of Circumstances for Dempsey’s Silent Thermogenesis in her right, she must still be awake on hedge business.

“Hey, bambi? Either I accidentally inhaled some of the peyote for the spell, or there’s a baby crying outside,” Fen hears from one of the back bedrooms. Eliot’s still up too, then.

“Ah, shit. Here we go,” Margo says, theatrical as always, but her voice is warm as she sets her spell components down and reaches out to take Fen’s case files for her, stepping aside to let her in. “Hey, kitten. You weren’t kidding when you said you’d be back late, huh?”

Fen sighs as Margo closes the door behind them and locks up, putting the shielding and soundproofing wards back in place. “I know, baby, I’m sorry, but the call came from Brakebills so I had to be the one to take it, Lipson said anyone else would have asked too many questions, and I don’t have a placement for her yet, so I’m going to need a few days to find one, she doesn’t have anywhere else to stay, and the mother said group homes weren’t an option, I tried to call ahead and warn you but you know how the cell signal is inside the wards so I-”

Fen hadn’t realized how sore her arms were from holding a wriggling infant for so long, but as Margo kisses her cheek and wordlessly takes the baby from her, she starts to feel the ache settling into her right shoulder. 

“Relax, sweetie, you’re just doing your job. I signed up for this, remember? I knew it was gonna happen eventually. Pretty sure they call it “emergency foster care” because shit happens. Deep breath, go sit down. My feet hurt just looking at you, Jesus.” Margo twists her fingers over the baby’s forehead in the familiar sequence for Sandoval’s Momentary Sensory Bridge, and a brief look of discomfort clouds her face. “Oh, she’s hungry, poor thing. Ugh, I hate psychic magic.”

It’s not often that Fen feels jealous over not possessing a single lick of magic. Most days, she’s perfectly content to orbit around Eliot and Margo’s strange world, secure in her private belief that the drama magic seems to inevitably bring along with it might be more trouble than it’s worth. Some days, though, magic sounds pretty damn tempting, coven chaos and all. She’s a social worker, not a saint, and that particular spell would make her day job a hell of a lot easier. 

“Get your ass out here and make yourself useful, Waugh,” Margo calls back to the bedrooms as Fen busies herself in the kitchen, preparing a bottle of formula. “We’ve got company.”

\---

“So, what, you’re saying she’d found a family and arranged everything, and then they just...backed out, last minute?” Margo asks, and Fen nods from where she’s tucked up against her side on the couch as she works her way through a piece of cold pizza, Margo’s arm slung around her shoulders. “God, what a couple of cocks. I’d probably go into preterm labor too, I’d be so pissed. I mean, come on, people, she has to push a fuckin’ baby out her twat either way, and you can’t get your shit together long enough to make up your minds?”

“Someone evidently hasn’t seen _Juno,_ ” Eliot murmurs softly, more to the baby than to Margo, really. They’re seated together by the fireplace, the newborn cradled in his arms as he takes a turn feeding her formula. Fen’s keeping an eye on him, mindful of the fact that the emergency foster parent venture was always more Margo’s thing than his, her stubborn way of proving she’d back anything Fen cared about in a heartbeat, no questions asked, even if that means signing up for the possibility of a surprise 72 hour shift spent caring for an unfamiliar child who’s quite possibly having one of the worst days of their life. Stubborn, loyal, headstrong Margo. And, well. Where Margo goes, Eliot follows, but Fen really does enjoy having him as a roommate, so she hopes he doesn’t feel _too_ caught in the crossfire. 

The thing is, though, he looks- steady, almost? Seeing him like this, silhouetted against the flickering glow of the fire, his attention fully fixed on the fresh little life held tight to his chest, it’s somewhat easier to reconcile the man she knows now with the Indiana farmboy that seems to exist within the hazy margins of Eliot’s bitter-sweet-bitter childhood memories, recounted over quiet nights and too much wine. Like this, she can almost picture him holding a... a baby goat, or something. In comparison to the relatively perfunctory, no-nonsense way that Margo had held the baby, there’s a certain tenderness in the way Eliot holds her that speaks to a lifetime of witnessing small creatures come into this world and helping them on their way.

“Sorry, kid,” he whispers, his voice a little rough, and when she coos up at him, he presses the softest brush of a kiss against her wrinkly newborn forehead. “You’ve had some pretty shit luck so far. Happy birthday, though.”

In all the places they’re pressed together, Fen feels Margo tense slightly- in the line of her thigh against Fen’s hip, the weight of her hand on Fen’s shoulder. Something soft and dawning blooms its way up Fen’s spine. _You see it too, then,_ she thinks. _There’s something there._

“She was born early?” he asks, concern lining his voice with velvet warmth. “Is she alright? Healthy, I mean?”

“They ran all her tests at Brakebills,” Fen says. “Lipson cleared her. 35 weeks, so. Not too early. She’s a little small, her weight is a bit low, but other than that, she’s doing well. She was already born when I got there, but apparently it was a pretty brutal birth. Everyone seemed a little shaken.”

“It sounds like a shit day for everyone involved, if you ask me,” Margo says. “I’m surprised you were able to calm her down so quick, El.”

“I’m not. It’s hard work,” Eliot says quietly. Pauses. “Surviving. I’m sure she’s tired. Being alive isn't easy.”

“I just keep thinking about what her mom said,” Fen sighs. Margo hums an inquisitive note, and Eliot looks up to catch her gaze, and there’s something so- strangely _settled,_ in his eyes, that Fen almost feels like she’s maybe a little off balance in comparison. “Right before I left. She said she didn’t care if I placed the baby with a magician family or not, that it didn’t matter. _Like that’s gonna have any bearing on whether or not she’ll grow up feeling loved,_ she said. _I want her to know she is loved. I want her to know that there’s always someone who’s willing to go to bat for her. Someone to show her that the only thing worth anything in this world is standing up for someone else with everything you’ve got._ ”

“Sounds appropriately vague and impossible,” Eliot says, but Fen watches as he offers the baby one of his fingers for her to wrap her tiny little fist around, hears his voice thin and crack around the edges, and. There it is again. That look on his face. 

She’d be lying if she said she’d thought she would ever see _him_ wearing it, but as she watches his eyes shine with that fragile, wild, terrified sort of hope, she recognizes it as the one she’s seen a hundred times before, the one that never fails to remind her in a bone-deep way that the work she does is _always_ worth it. She’d recognize that look anywhere.

It’s the face of a parent meeting their child for the very first time.  
Universal. Unmistakeable.

Margo slips her hand into Fen’s and squeezes, gently, and when Fen turns to meet her eyes, the question written in them is clear. _Things are about to change, aren’t they?_

Fen nods softly, gives her a tiny smile so fond and warm it almost aches, her chest tight with some unnamed tangle of joy and pride. Margo huffs that silent, disbelieving little laugh of hers, a breath punched out, her eyes suspiciously bright with something that Fen _might_ call tears, if she, y’know, had less self preservation instincts when it comes to Margo and her moods. She grips Margo’s hand tight, watches her watch Eliot with so much love in her eyes, and lets the moment glow.

 _“Maybe sometimes life is random and unfair, you know? It doesn’t always ask our permission. It just is. But whatever life gives her, I want her to know that she can always, always choose to do something with it. Tall order, I know, but- that’s all that matters, really,”_ the baby’s mother had said, hushed in the quiet of the infirmary room, her face pale with the pain and exhaustion of birth, but her eyes half wild. _“Promise me that you’ll find her a home that’s safe, and stable, where she’ll know she’s loved, with someone to teach her that if fixing big things were easy, everyone would do it. Promise me, Fen. That you’ll put her with someone who’s up for that, someone good. I care about that more than I care about any goddamn white picket fences. Just someone who will love her and teach her to try. That’s all.”_

 _“I promise. I promise you. I will do absolutely everything I can,”_ Fen had said.

Now, watching as Eliot tucks the baby’s arms back inside of her swaddling blanket even though she’s not crying or fussing, watching as he wraps her just a little tighter, holds her just a little bit closer to his chest- Fen feels her heart squeeze.

_Not a tall order at all._

\---

**QUENTIN, JUST OVER EIGHT YEARS AGO. MAY. MANHATTAN, NY.**

"Q. Quentin. Take a deep breath and start from the beginning. And say it a little slower this time, please, because I'm hoping I misheard you." Julia's voice crackles over speakerphone, and Quentin sighs, dragging his hands down his face as he slides off the couch to sit against the front of it on the floor, resting his head back against the cushions and sprawling his legs out underneath the coffee table.

"I think I might be a dad now?" he says, his voice pitching a little squeaky and uneven.

"Yep, okay, heard you right the first time," she says, cheerful as ever, even in his times of crisis. It's maybe a little embarrassing how grounding he finds it. "That still doesn't fill in any of the gaps in comprehension here, Q. Care to explain?"

"Sorry, sorry," he says. "Um. Alice, uh. Alice called."

It's like he can _hear_ the full scope of the situation snapping into place for Julia. There's a moment of itching silence.

"Well," she says. "Shit." 

It's so _Julia_ that it startles an awkward laugh out of him, momentarily easing the tight snarl of anxiety in his chest. "That about covers it, yeah," he says, and Julia giggles softly, and for half a second, everything is right in the universe.

"I gotta say, it's pretty weird being on the other side of the pregnancy scare conversation," she jokes, and Quentin's heart does a complicated tug as he remembers holding her hand in the bathroom of the Cottage, watching the stick balanced on the edge of the chipped porcelain sink, waiting for a little pink plus sign to appear.

"What can I say, I'm a big believer in gender equality," he quips, picking at a ragged fingernail. "But yeah, um, so. So Alice called, right? And, like, I didn't think anything of it, 'cause we talk to each other pretty often, you know, like, the whole "staying friends" thing is going pretty okay. We talk about normal stuff or whatever, like how she's adjusting to living in Portland, and how everything is going with the Library, just stuff like that, so I-"

"Q," Julia interrupts, her voice warm and fond. "You're rambling, a little."

"I'm, like, incredibly anxious right now, and you're being kind of a dick," he says with no real heat behind it.

"Get to the point, Coldwater."

"Yeah, okay. So I answered her call and said hi, right, and then she just, like. Blurted it out?" 

"Sounds like Alice," she says, and yeah, it was a pretty textbook maneuver. His heart squeezes with residual fondness for a moment, and he maybe probably shouldn't be feeling things like that about his ex girlfriend anymore? _Whatever,_ he thinks. She's still his friend. Julia continues, cutting off his train of thought. "What did you say?"

"Um, well. I mean, I asked her if it was- mine, you know? Which went about as well as you'd expect."

"Jesus, Q. Word to the wise, girls usually don't call to tell you that they're knocked up unless they think it's yours."

"Shut up," he says, "Yeah, no, I know, I know that, just. You know."

"I do," she says, gently. "You wanted to be sure."

He remembers the portal to a Walgreens in Brooklyn, the three pregnancy tests side by side on the edge of the sink, the handful of clumsy diagnostic spells, the reluctant visit to Lipson, just to be _sure._

"Yeah," he replies, quietly. He stares at his phone where it's laying on the coffee table, wishing desperately that she was here right now to give him a hug and hold his hand. "Did you feel this scared when it was you?"

"All that and then some," she says. "You know, considering the distinct possibility that my dumb mistake could result in me essentially having to push a bowling ball out of my vagina."

"Not to discount the traumatic miracle of birth or anything, but you're really bad at this," he says, and Jules barks a sharp laugh. "Was I this bad at this?"

Her voice softens around the edges, and he can hear her smiling. "You were amazing, Q. But yeah, jokes aside, I'm not gonna lie, it sucked. And it was just supposed to be dumb mindless rebound sex, but now everything was so complicated suddenly, and I knew I was going to have to find a way to tell Kady, if we were going to fix things. And I wanted her back so _badly,_ Q, I loved her so much, and yeah her dick was fake but at least _she_ knew how to _use it-"_

Quentin clears his throat. "I'll remind you once again that Penny is _literally my therapist_ now, so if you could please refrain from telling me about how disappointing his dick game is for, like, the five _millionth_ time? I'd really appreciate it. It's a big ask, I know, but try your best."

Julia snorts a laugh. "Sorry, sorry, my bad."

Quentin hums, forgiving. He can never manage to stay annoyed at her for long. Then, carefully: "I'm buying a plane ticket to Portland, Jules."

"To be with her for the procedure? Aw, that's sweet of you," Jules says, and- god, he can't. She's not _getting_ it. He's fucking this up.

"I thought about my options, you know?" Jules says when he doesn't reply. And- yeah, he _knows,_ he was _there, thank you very much._ "I really thought about it, but I just kept thinking- well, you know all that already." 

_There we go._ She continues. 

"Yeah, sure, the thought of birth scared the shit out of me, but so did the thought of turning down a chance to make it a good thing, to do whatever I had to do in order to help someone else. But I think the thought that actually scared me the _most_ was having to do it alone? I wasn't alone, though. I had you, and Kady, after I explained everything and we worked through our shit and got back together, and I had Alice, and I knew Penny would respect whatever decision I made about it, he's an asshole but he's not _that_ kind of asshole, and hell, he’s adopted himself. So, like, I knew I had options. And it's not like my life actually had to change that much or anything regardless, all things considered. One option required a hell of a lot more legwork than the other, but it'd still be over in nine months anyway. That seemed like a drop in the bucket, really."

"How about, um. Eighteen years?" Quentin says, trying again, feeling his pulse crashing in his throat.

"What?"

"Would you say that eighteen years qualifies as, uh. A drop in the bucket." He closes his eyes, swallows, bracing himself for the inevitable _Quentin Makepeace Coldwater, what the fuck did you do?_ He has no clue what he would even say to that, how to explain any of it, how to make her understand what had _come over him,_ that it wasn't even a _choice,_ the words had just left his mouth before he even had a chance to second-guess the perfect, desperate _rightness_ of them-

But it never comes.

Instead there's this: the click of the call disconnecting. The sharp crackling glow in the air and the momentary searing smell of ozone. A familiar breath of wildflower perfume, the sound of quiet footsteps on the faded hardwood of his living room.

"Oh, Q," she whispers. Unbelievably tender.

He feels a prickling ache blooming behind his eyes, and when he swallows, his throat feels too tight above the suffocating, hammering hope locked inside his chest. _Please,_ he thinks, wildly, _I want this too much._

He doesn't open his eyes, even when he feels her small, soft palm slip into his own hand, fitting as perfectly as it always has. She gives his hand a little squeeze, and he returns it on instinct alone.

"It's not every day your best friend becomes a father," she murmurs, resting her head against his shoulder, and something in his heart just- _breaks._

 _Repair of small objects,_ he thinks, like a lighthouse, like a lifeline. _Just a minor mending._

"Okay. If we're really doing this, then start back at the beginning," Julia says, simple as anything, and he loves her _so much,_ it's just. She's the best thing. He's so absurdly grateful for her. "And tell me everything."

\---

"You know, you're lucky I'm so good at portal magic," Julia says, passing him the joint. "Because I say this with love, Q, but someone needs to revoke your portal license. You're kind of a hazard."

He shrugs. She's right. "Yeah, okay, that's fair, honestly," he says. "My portal casts have more holes than the last season of Game of Thrones. I probably should have lost a limb by now."

She nods solemnly, and he snorts a laugh.

"I'm gonna come visit you all the time," she says. "Word on the street is that Portland's got good coffee and good weed and cute babies with Coldwater dimples though, so I don't _really_ blame you."

"You should ask Fogg to increase your monthly portal allocation," Quentin says, taking a hit and exhaling the smoke through the open window, watching it curl against the dark. His knees are brushing Julia's where they're seated facing each other on the window seat, shivering a little from the invading draft of cold air. "You're gonna burn through yours really quick."

"Oh, he's gonna," Julia says, mild and cheerful in that way of hers as she smirks at him, reaching out for the joint. "He does _not_ want to deal with me when I'm missing my best friend."

He smiles fondly at her, and they're quiet for a long moment, just passing the joint back and forth, watching it burn down.

"There's nothing really left for me here anymore?" he says, finally. Julia's eyebrows knit together in concern, so he scrambles to explain himself. "I mean. I'm not... Jules, I know this is all really sudden, it's just. Moving feels, uh, right," he says. "Like. Like it's something I should be doing? If that makes any sense."

She tilts her head a bit, but doesn't say anything, so he continues. 

"I'm fully cognizant that, um. From the outside, this could definitely look like, uh, a cry for help, or something? Like, uprooting my whole life practically overnight, or whatever. But I just want you to know that I'm in a good place right now, actually? I'm okay. It's just- I mean, you're here, obviously, but you can use portals, so you can always visit me, it doesn't matter where I am. But Alice is gone, and I don't have Brakebills anymore, and my dad-"

Julia gives him a soft, sad little smile, resting a hand on one of his knees. "I know what you mean, Q," she murmurs. "I'm not worried. It makes sense. A lot of your life has changed recently. If you're feeling ready to start building something new for yourself, then I think that's a good thing. And hey, for what it's worth? I'm really, really proud of you. And I love you, but you already knew that."

He covers her hand with one of his. "Yeah. Thanks, Jules. Alice and I talked about this a lot. My brain shit, I mean. I offered to take full custody with the caveat that if I'm- you know, having a shitty fucking week, or month or whatever, she'll. Make sure the kid's okay, and everything. Take over for a bit if she needs to."

Julia nods, matter of fact, and Quentin- he knows that look. He’s been Julia Wicker’s best friend for long enough now to recognize the iron-will way she looks when she’s made up her mind. And something in his chest just _glows,_ because if he knows two things about Julia Wicker, it’s that she’s rarely wrong, and she never backs down. If she thinks he can do this-

“It’s gonna be hard work,” she says, and- _oh._ “Way fucking harder than you’re ready for. It’s gonna be miserable sometimes.”

“I-” he starts, feeling the floor drop out from under him, feeling _small,_ feeling-

“There’s no one I’d trust it with more than you, Q.” 

_Wait._

“You have so much love to give,” she says, and he just- _Jesus, Jules, way to bury the lead._ “You fight harder than anyone I’ve ever met for the things that matter to you. Do you remember what I told the social worker?”

He cocks his head a little, flicking through memories. That whole day had been- insane, and terrifying, and it’s not territory he ventures into all that often if he can help it. “No,” he finally says. “I think I just missed her, remember? ‘Cause she came by right when I stepped out to call Kady and let her know you were-”

Something shutters in her eyes, and he winces a little, managing to cut himself off before the word _alive_ can leave his mouth.

“I said I wanted someone who would love her and teach her to try,” Julia says. “That I wanted her to grow up knowing there was someone who would always fight for her, time after time, no matter what, even if it was hard. Someone who could teach her that nothing fucking matters if you’re not willing to stand up for other people with everything in you. I told the social worker that _that_ was what I wanted for my baby, more than anything else. And everything else had gone to shit and my plan didn’t exist anymore, so I made her promise to find someone who would teach her that caring about things fucking _matters._ And you know what, Q? It’s because I learned that from you.”

“Sounds fake, but okay,” he murmurs, because what else can he even _say_ to that, there’s nothing to do but drown in it, his throat’s already closing around all the love and significance behind it, and besides, it’s _Julia,_ she’ll know what he means. Always does.

“So I’m going to ask you something, and I’m only going to say it once,” she says, continuing on like she didn’t just reconstruct his entire universe from the ground up. “Do you want this? Is this something you’re willing to fight for?”

“I’ve never wanted anything more,” he says, feeling the truth of it soaking through him like so much light. “And- yeah, Jules. With everything I have.”

“Then I know you’re good for it,” she says, simple as that, and. Well. He can’t argue with that. It’s Julia. “Now, on to more pressing matters: I’m calling dibs on godmother.”

“Well, that’s kind of- it’s really interesting, cause that’s sort of a Catholocism thing, actually? Or just, like, Christianity in general, maybe. I feel like that’s not commonly known, which is really weird, because like, it’s in the name, you know? _God_ parent. And I’m not sure if Unitarian Universalism has, like, an equivalent of that, or-”

She smiles at him, warm and teasing, and- yeah. The ship rights itself under his feet, the ground stops quaking, he finds his equilibrium again. They’re gonna be okay. He’s doing this, and she’s here, and he’s going to be a father. And everything’s okay.


	2. the first things that she took from me were selfishness and sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning in the second half of this chapter for a pretty extended and graphic (but not gory) depiction of birth.

**FEN, NEARLY NINE YEARS AGO. NOVEMBER. BROOKLYN, NY.**

Fen makes it less than 48 hours before she opens Pandora’s bag. ( _Or box? Is it Pandora’s box? Maybe basket. No, she was right the first time, it’s bag, definitely bag._ ) 

_Fen, I love you, but if you spring this on him, he’ll bolt,_ Margo had said the night before, impressively coherent for a woman who, at the time, was in the middle of having her pus-

Anyway. Margo had told her to wait. To let Eliot have more time with the baby, to see if he would maybe start coming to conclusions on his own, to give him a chance to lay some sort of foundation or framework that would hopefully be able to withstand the shock of the potential future she was about to drop on his head like an anvil-

 _Yeah, sorry Margo,_ Fen thinks. She might know Eliot, but Fen knows this, this conversation, this moment, this _milestone?_ She knows it better than anything. She lives for it.

Besides, it’s arguably Eliot’s fault anyway. He started it.

“The dawn of the final day,” he coos, fastening the last tab on the baby’s diaper. “Twenty four more hours until you’re forcibly evicted from House Hanson-Waugh.”

“Hanson-Waugh-Dirkenmacher,” Fen corrects, mostly out of habit. 

“Doesn’t roll off the tongue,” Eliot quips, “and besides, we both know you’ll be taking her name eventually, might as well skip the pretense.”

“Margo’s morally and ethically against marriage,” she replies, a statement that’s equal parts familiar by way of pointed, emphatic repetition, and demonstratively, evidently untrue to anyone who really knows Margo and has the privilege of being loved by her. But Fen understands that it’s the principle of the thing, so. 

“Mhm, undoubtedly. We’ll see how long that particular political stance lasts, with you in the picture,” Eliot says, wrestling the baby into a onesie and scooping her up gently. “Don’t tell her I said that, though, she’ll kick me from the coven groupchat and uninvite me to every brunch from now until the day I die.”

Fen snorts a laugh, her heart kicking with warmth the way it always does when Eliot volunteers some piece of implied approval at the space Fen takes up in Margo’s life. She watches from her place cross-legged on the floor as he mixes a bottle of formula, warms it with a tut, and settles down on the couch with the baby cradled in one arm. And- it’s three in the morning, and Fen knows she should probably be asleep, and she knows Margo’s going to kill her for broaching the subject without her, and she knows Margo told her to wait as long as she could, but the moment is _here_ and it’s chewing at her insides and-

“She doesn’t have anywhere to go, y’know,” she says, softly, and Eliot- tenses, for just a second, almost imperceptibly. But then the line of his shoulders is smooth again and the mask is back on and if she didn’t know him quite so well, Fen would wonder whether she even saw it in the first place.

“Who, Margo?” he says, lightly, joking as ever. “I can think of plenty of places. Encanto Oculto, the Hamptons, Coachella, if they ever decide to lift her lifetime ban-”

“I thought we were skipping the pretense,” Fen shoots back, gentle yet unyielding. She’s not going to let him wiggle his way out of this conversation, and one look at his face tells her that he knows it. “You know who I mean.”

He swallows, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of the tiny newborn in his arms, and he’s looking at her like she’s a compass, a fixed point on an unsteady horizon. Fen adds another mental tick mark to the running tally of _times she got it right._ There are a lot of things she’s bad at, but her job is not one of them. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but that sounds like a you problem,” Eliot says, voice a little thin. “You know, considering that your entire job consists of finding places to put children who are temporarily lacking places to be put.”

“It is my problem,” Fen says agreeably, steeling herself. She was expecting to have to play hardball with Eliot, about this, and it’s looking like she was right. “But it’s pretty bold of you to assume I haven’t already solved it.”

“I know I’m not the brightest diamond in the Tiffany bracelet, but I’m not really seeing where _she doesn’t have anywhere to go_ and _I’ve already found somewhere to put her_ intersect.” His shoulders are- curved, ever so slightly, like he’s unconsciously trying to wrap himself around the baby, to shield her from harm, from anyone who would ever try to take her away from him. _How does he not know,_ Fen thinks, not unkindly, and she’s quiet for a moment.

“Eliot,” she says, finally.

It’s like she can see the moment the fear hits him. He inhales sharply, the hand holding the bottle trembles faintly. It’s dim in the living room, this late at night, but she could _swear_ his eyes are shining. 

“Yeah?” he says, watery, and she hears him choking on it.

“She’s already home,” Fen says.

Pain clouds Eliot's face for a moment, and he grits his teeth, the muscles in his jaw working with it. "For the next twenty four hours, yes," he snaps, "I'm well aware, Fen. Thought we'd established this." 

He doesn't say _don't remind me, I'm trying not to think about it._ He doesn't need to. She already knows. 

Instead, he takes a deep breath before saying "I was under the impression we were talking about her permanent home." Stiff. Measured.

"We are," she says, and Eliot- freezes. Fen continues. "And I'm telling you that her home is here. With you."

He looks up at her then, meets her eyes instead of the baby's for the first time this whole conversation, and his features do something complicated before settling into that horrible little self-hating half-smile of his, the one where he laughs something off instead of letting himself have it, even when it's _screamingly obvious_ how much he _cares_ \- and he can't do that, not now. She can't let him, because if he chooses that now, with this, of all things, it'll mean she was wrong, that he's not _someone who will love her and teach her to try._

"You don't mean," he says, and her heart sinks because it starts off irreverent, detached, affected, but then- it pitches up, like a question, like hope, his smirk fallen away, and just like that, she knows she was right. 

"Please tell me you don't mean," he continues, sounding desperate, a little strung out. "Fuck, Fen, if you mean what I think you mean, that's _crazy,_ I can't-"

"She's yours," Fen whispers, and Eliot's eyes turn wild with that fresh kind of love, startled and newborn, shaky on its legs. He gazes down at the child in his arms like she's his whole universe, like he always knew he would end up here, like he's scared out of his damn mind, like he never saw it coming.

"I," he starts, and he looks up at Fen again, "Is she-"

"Yours," Fen says again, "If you want her." And fuck, but this part gets her every goddamn time, and she's crying a little, but it's okay because Eliot is crying, too. "It's unorthodox, but with Margo's help I can make the paperwork happen, charm it a little to go through easier. I'm not above skipping a couple steps to get her where she belongs. You fit the description the mother gave me, though, so if you want-"

"I'm going to stop smoking," he says, frantic. "Drink less, too. I'll start working on getting my own place. I'll clean my life up, Fen, I promise, I swear to God, fuck, I'll even go to therapy like Margo wants me to, just please don't-"

"Breathe, Eliot," she tells him, getting up and crossing the room to sit next to him on the couch, lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I trust you. I would never have even given you the option otherwise. I trust you'll take care of her. I know you, and I know you are a _good man,_ and I know you make sacrifices for the people you love. And I know this is a lot, and really sudden, and if you're not ready, that's okay, I can-" 

"Fuck you, she's mine," Eliot says, but there's no bite behind it, caught breathless with something between a laugh and a sob. He traces one finger against the baby's cheek, feather light. "Hi, little one. I think I might be your dad? Sorry I missed your birth. If it makes you feel better, I'm late to a lot of things."

Fen's heart aches at that, it always does. It's a painful sentiment, for adoptive parents, but luckily it's one she knows how to deal with.

"The act of physically exiting the womb isn't what makes birth special for a child, Eliot," she says softly. "The first person to hold them is generally a complete stranger wearing latex gloves. It's what comes after that matters. When the doctor hands them to their family. That's what's special about a birth, really. That's the part we remember." She gently takes the baby from him, cradling her against her chest. She fusses loudly at being separated from Eliot, and he reaches out for her on instinct, but Fen holds her tight.

"Eliot, would you like to meet your daughter?" 

He nods, laughs, sniffles a little, tears brimming in his eyes. He looks happier than she's ever seen him. She couldn't be more proud.

She hands him his baby girl, and he holds her in his arms like they're shelter from a storm. "Welcome home, sunshine," he whispers. "I think I love you." She squeals excitedly, jamming part of her fist in her mouth and blinking up at him with her big eyes.

"What's her name?" Fen asks, prompting, and she fully expects him to say he needs to take some time to think about it, but he's just quiet for a moment and then-

"Violet," he says softly, leaning down to kiss her tiny forehead. "Your name is Violet Imogen Waugh, darling. You can call me Eliot, and that's aunt Fen, and you have another aunt named Margo who aunt Fen sometimes has sex with-"

"Eliot!"

"-but she's sleeping right now, so- oh fuck." This last part is directed at Fen, not Violet.

"Margo's gonna kill you?" she guesses.

He nods solemnly. "Margo's gonna kill me."

\---

**JULIA, SEVEN AND A HALF YEARS AGO. FEBRUARY. PORTLAND, OR.**

“Do you-”

“I sincerely fucking hope you are not about to ask me _again_ if I want more ice chips, because Quentin Makepeace Coldwater, I’m a little busy arguing with my _fucking cervix_ right now but I am not even remotely joking when I say that I can and _will_ realign every individual atom in your body on a goddamn quantum scale- _god, fuck!”_

Alice grits her teeth against a shout of pain, tightening her white-knuckle grip on Julia’s hand. If she squeezes any harder, she’s gonna start breaking fingers, but Julia remembers this part, so she knows Alice has all the right in the world to cause as many minor injuries as she needs to right now to get through this. Nothing a little healing magic can’t fix.

Across the room, Quentin’s pacing anxiously like he has been for the last two and a half hours, one hand buried nervously in his hair. He shoots a wide-eyed look of _What did I do?_ her way, and Julia does her best to stifle a giggle. 

_Don’t take it personally,_ she mouths back, and he rolls his eyes at her, but he looks marginally calmer, so she’ll take that as a win.

“This is the worst part,” Julia says, reaching out to brush back a few stray strands of Alice’s hair that escaped her bun to curl sweatily against her temples, plastered to her clammy forehead. “It gets easier once they let you push.”

“Okay, that’s, like- there’s no way that’s true,” Quentin says. “That can’t be true. Right?”

Julia glares at him as hard as she can, because God, Coldwater, there are things you say to a person who’s currently giving birth and _that is not one of them-_

Alice throws a paper cup and the inch of half-melted ice chips left inside it at him with unerring and frankly impressive precision, which, honestly, fair.

“Go find her midwife,” Julia tells him, half for Alice’s sake and half because his pacing is starting to drive her insane and she’s not even the one giving birth. She tries to remember if she found it as annoying when she _was_ giving birth, but she’d spent the lion’s share of the whole process alternately bleeding out, having a panic attack because the baby was breech and _wouldn’t turn around,_ bleeding some more, dilating at a rate that was (according to Lipson) _"faster than humanly possible,"_ crying because she couldn’t get ahold of Kady, hemorrhaging a third of her blood supply, having another panic attack because the baby was coming too fast five weeks early with the cord wrapped around her neck and her entire plan had just taken a swan dive off Mount Everest, losing consciousness-

Yeah, the whole memory thing is fairly foggy when it comes to that one. _Then again,_ she thinks, _when you put it that way._ It’s amazing Quentin is holding it together as well as he is, considering the track record here. A pang of sympathy courses through her, for how scared he must be right now.

“Thank you for being here,” Alice whispers, her voice shaking with the effort. “I needed someone who knows what it’s like, and I can’t even imagine going through this with my mother here.” Her eyes are screwed tightly shut in pain as she shifts her weight on her knees in the warm water. Alice hadn’t originally struck her as the birthing center, water birth, no epidural type of girl, but Julia gets it now. The Alice Quinn she’s known since day one of grad school always did her research and stood on the side of science, and Julia can’t lie, the evidence in favor of birth centers is fairly compelling. She thinks she might have liked to give birth in a place like this, maybe, if she hadn’t been so busy nearly dying every fifteen minutes.

_Focus, Jules._

“Of course,” Julia says, stroking her thumb over the back of Alice’s hand in a way that she hopes is reassuring. “You’re gonna be just fine, I’ve got you. Quentin’s here too, obviously, he’s just nervous. There’s no real reason to be, though. You’re right on schedule and everything’s happening just like it’s supposed to, no complications. This is hundreds of thousands of years of evolutionary biology at work, remember?”

“Evolutionary biology can fuck right off and oh _SHIT,_ this _hurts,_ where’s Quentin, I think,” Alice sobs, her arms nearly giving out underneath her, and yep, okay, Julia’s in the birthing pool with her now, helping hold her up as she lets out a near-animal cry. 

“Quentin, where the fuck are you,” Julia mutters under her breath, but he returns seconds later with the midwife in tow, looking frantic and terrified as the midwife moves behind Alice to check her dilation. Alice thrusts her free hand out in Quentin’s general direction, evidently having decided that comfort outweighs annoyance at the moment, and he scrambles to take it, kneeling at her side in a heartbeat, his wide eyes trained on her attentively. 

“Is it time?” he asks, less to the midwife and more to Alice herself as he holds a cool washcloth to her forehead. And Alice must _know,_ must be able to sense that she’s ready, because she’s nodding frantically even before Delilah snaps on a fresh pair of gloves and finally, _finally_ announces that it’s time to push. 

\---

“You said this part would be easier,” Alice says, barbed and accusatory as ever, even when she’s halfway to crying. 

“White lie?” Julia offers with a guilty smile. “You’re almost there, Alice, come on. Don’t give up now.” 

“Does it normally take this long?” Quentin whispers, concern written in every line of his face. He hasn’t let go of Alice’s hand since she offered it, not for one second.

“It can, yeah,” Julia whispers back. “Everyone’s different, Q. It’s supposed to take a long time. I was a definite outlier. Breathe, it’s okay.” 

“Okay,” he says, and she can see him trying to steel himself again. “Sorry, yeah, I just, I thought this part was supposed to happen fairly quickly. She’s been at this for so long, Jules, she’s in so much pain, she must be exhausted, I-”

“I can hear you, you know,” Alice snarls, caged-animal vicious.

“About a minute left before I’m gonna need you to push again, okay Alice? Probably five more, or so. You’re so close,” Delilah says.

“Does that mean you’re crowning?” Quentin asks, clearly trying to be- helpful, or something, bless his heart.

 _“Shut UP, Quentin!”_ Alice yells. “Goddamnit, I’m gonna _snap-”_

“Leonard Nimoy, call me back?” Quentin offers with a shy little smile.

Julia has no idea what that means, but Alice just... stares at him, for a minute. 

And then she starts to laugh. Distraught, hysterical laughter, tumbling out of her like water from a faucet, steam from a tea kettle. 

“Call me back,” she wheezes, “I try to call you every day, I’m rehearsing what to say-”

“When the truth comes out,” Quentin agrees, mock somber as he tries to hold back his own laughter.

It’s the kind of laughter that’s such a desperately needed pressure release that it’ll inevitably turn into crying halfway through, for both of them, but. Alice is laughing, and Quentin’s smiling too, broad and full, and he’s gripping one of her hands tight in both of his, kneeling in the birthing pool right beside her, jeans and all, and _God,_ Julia thinks. _He was born for this._ For taking care of people, for always being there when the people he loves are hurting, for just fucking _showing up and trying his damn best,_ every time, even when it’s hard. 

“Okay, Alice, I need you to push again,” Delilah says gently. “Can you do that for me?”  
Alice looks at Quentin, and then at Julia, and then she nods, her eyes and jaw setting into that fierce, bulletproof determination she wears so well. “Yeah,” she says, breathy but firm. “Yeah, I can.”

Things move quickly, from there.

“Last one, Alice, I swear, just one more, you’re almost done,” Quentin murmurs, leaning his forehead against hers. There’s such a _love_ there, simpler than any kind Julia’s ever seen between them before. A common tongue of _I’m so glad we’re in this together,_ of _thank you for giving me this chance,_ of _I know you’re going to do so much good with it._

“Love but not _in_ love,” Alice whispers to him, shaky through gritted teeth. “You better raise my kid right, Coldwater.”

“Love, but not _in_ love,” Quentin agrees, his voice thick with unshed tears. “And yeah, I will, Quinn, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“You don’t get to say that,” Alice and Julia remind him in stern automatic unison.

“Shit, yeah, my bad.”

“Okay, push-”

Alice lets out one last growl of pain, animal, _feral,_ and Delilah’s cradling fresh life in her arms, and everyone’s crying, the _baby_ cries, loud and clarion from just-born lungs, so someone must have cut the cord, and there’s blood and amniotic fluid and vernix all over the place but Alice just collapses into the water, folding like a puppet with cut strings. She slumps against Quentin, who’s anxiously watching as Delilah and another midwife fuss over the baby a few paces away at a small table, checking vital signs and reflexes, weighing and measuring.

“Did I do it?” Alice whispers, choked with relief and pride, completely spent. “Is the baby okay, is it over?”

“Yeah,” Julia says back. “You did it, Alice. You fucking did it. And the baby-”

“Is doing just fine, and will be with you in a moment,” Delilah calls over.

Quentin and Alice let out matching sighs of reassurance, and Alice closes her eyes, sprawling back against the pool wall in exhaustion. 

“You were incredible,” Quentin says softly, and Alice just smiles faintly and squeezes his hand. “Thank you,” he says. “For- thank you.”

“You know me,” she slurs. “Anything in the name of scientific inquiry and empirical research. Now somebody bring me my baby. Wanna see if I did good. Need to check my work before I turn it in.”

Julia snorts a laugh, and Quentin just chuckles fondly. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“She just birthed your child, Q, let’s wait a few business days before we start throwing stones in glass houses,” Julia teases. He doesn’t hear her, though, because he’s too busy unbuttoning his shirt, preparing to hold the baby skin-to-skin, the way all the parenting books say you’re supposed to for like, better bonding, or whatever. He gets it stuck halfway over his head for a moment, because he’s Quentin Coldwater, and some things never change.

“Baby,” Alice requests again, louder this time. “Now, please.”

Delilah laughs, crossing back over to their side of the room, a small bundle of fabric held tight in her arms. “Quentin, Alice,” she says, “Congrats on making a perfectly healthy, absolutely precious baby girl.”

Quentin’s breath catches, and he reaches a hand towards Julia without even looking. She catches it on instinct, anchoring him even as she feels her own heart flooding over, throat full of joy, all of her overflowing.

“It’s a girl?” he whispers, and he’s delighted, just _beaming_ with it, god.

“I told you so,” Alice jokes, grinning up at him, her voice lined with an overwhelmed sort of pride.

Delilah laughs, and the little bundle in her arms wiggles a bit, lets out a short wail of discontent. “It’s a girl. Would you like to meet your daughter?”

“Well,” Alice says, raising an eyebrow at Quentin softly. “Would you?”

“You did the hard part, you should get to hold her first,” Quentin says, “That seems fair, right?”

“We talked about this,” Alice says quietly, pointed but kind. “She’s _your_ daughter, Quentin.”

“No, no, I know, I just-”

“Q? I love you, but shut the fuck up and hold your daughter already,” Julia says, letting go of his hand to push him gently. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says, folding without a fight. His voice shakes, unsteady, and he holds out trembling hands, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Can I, um. Can I hold her? Please?”

Delilah shifts the baby gently from her swaddling blanket into his arms, and he lets out a faint, fractured sob, helpless from the second he sees her face. He swallows, holding her tight against his chest as he looks down at her, wide-eyed and overcome, and Julia watches him gather the weight and the warmth of newfound purpose around himself like a quilt, like a blessing, like so much armor to every soft, exposed edge.

“Hi baby,” he breathes, sniffling a little, cradling his daughter to his ribs. “It’s me, it’s your dad. My name’s Quentin. God, you’re so small.” She cries, high and shrill, and he laughs as though it hadn’t clearly cracked him open, as though this little life wasn’t busy hollowing out a home inside his heart. “I’ve got you,” he says, the back of her head cupped securely in his palm, “It’s okay, I’ve got you, you’re safe.” He bends to kiss her forehead, and she blinks up at him, one tiny hand flailing out to brush his cheek.

He looks wildly to Alice, then Julia, awe and adoration washing across his face, and when he moves slowly and carefully to sit cross-legged on the ground, Alice lays a reassuring hand on his knee. “Holy shit, I made this,” he says, raw and disbelieving as Julia shifts to sit next to him, head on his shoulder. He looks to Alice, eyes spilling over. “We made this?”

She nods, laughing a little, and she reaches out slowly with a glance towards Quentin as though asking for permission. He nods eagerly, _God, yeah, no, of course, go ahead,_ and she offers her hand to the baby, who happily grabs one of her fingers to hold tight in her chubby little fist.

“It’s all you from here on out, Q, but...yeah. We made this,” Alice remarks with wonder, her other hand brushing gentle against the baby’s thin, downy hair. “It’s nice to meet you, baby. I’m Alice.” 

The newborn squirms, turning to look at her with inquisitive eyes, and Alice smiles. “That’s right, yeah, I’m the one who’s been carrying you around for the last ten months. Bet it’s weird to hear my voice from the outside, huh?”

Quentin laughs, the sound catching the baby’s attention, startling her a little. Her eyes find his again, and Alice looks on with fondness. “Who’s that, is that your daddy?” she asks. The baby warbles a sound in response, and Quentin just looks so in love with her already. Julia’s been thinking of him as a father for months now, but this is the moment where it starts to feel real, and she’s so proud of him that she doesn’t know where to put it.

Delilah pulls Alice aside gently, murmuring something to her, and Alice nods, turning back to the baby with a contented sigh. “Okay, I have to go deliver your placenta now, so this is the part where I let him take over. But you’re very sweet, and you’re in safe hands. Your father is a good man, he’s the best man I know, and he’s going to take care of you from now on.” 

Alice disentangles herself from the baby, and Quentin gives her a kiss on the forehead, a whispered thank you, and a look of deep gratitude before she moves with Delilah to the other side of the birthing pool to deal with the afterbirth.

Quentin shifts the baby gently so that Julia can get a better look at her, and newborns don’t look like _anyone,_ really, they never do, and people who say otherwise are liars, but Julia thinks she might understand now why people sometimes say that in the first place, because there is no denying that the baby somehow looks like _his_. “So this is your aunt,” he says, and Julia’s smiling so hard her face hurts. “She’s known me since I was your age, practically. You’re gonna be seeing a lot of her, so you should probably get used to her.” He looks up at Jules, then. “Do you want to hold her?”

Julia shakes her head softly, feeling too- raw, right now, today has been a lot, but this is about Q, not her, so she doesn’t want to push it, she just wants to be here for him. “Later,” she says, stroking one finger along the baby’s cheek. “I do have something for her, though, one sec.” She rummages in her bag for a moment before producing a stuffed animal. It’s nearly as big as the baby herself, but hey, that’s okay, she’ll grow into it. “This is for you, because you’ll learn pretty soon that your dad is an enormous nerd,” she says, grabbing the blanket she had been swaddled in earlier and laying it over her in Q’s arms, tucking the little white dragon in alongside her.

“You got her a Falkor?” Quentin says, grinning at her. “Jules, that’s perfect. Thank you.”

“Love you, Q,” she says softly before turning back to the baby. “Technically, I think this means I gave you your first-ever birthday present, so I guess I beat your dad to it? But that’s okay, because he loves you very much. And he’s really good at loving people too, which I know for a fact, because he loves me, so welcome to the club, sweetie. My name’s Julia, by the way. You don’t have one of those yet, do you?”

“That’s my gift to her,” Quentin says softly, his gaze fixed on his baby as she closes her eyes, warm and content under her blanket, curling close to her new stuffed animal. “Her name, I mean.” 

He’s had a pair of names picked out for a while now, Julia knew, one for a boy and one for a girl. He’d stubbornly refused to tell anyone though, not even her or Alice, who had politely excused herself from the naming process altogether, opting to leave it up to him. Julia had felt a bit left out at first, until he’d explained that this was the first big decision he would make about his child’s life, and he said it needed to be one that he felt confident making on his own, if he was going to do this. 

Which, fair, but still. She’s curious.

“Happy birthday, Ada Josephine Coldwater,” he says.

 _Oh, Q,_ Julia thinks. _You’re going to do just fine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter notes: chapter title from "the mother" by brandi carlile. i gave fen a last name because i felt weird without one- "dirkenmacher" is roughly intended as english/german, meaning "son/daughter of a knife maker." couldn't resist. alice's choice to live in portland post graduating brakebills is due to her helping run a library branch based there, and it's inspired by the fake ending she wrote for her own library book in season 4, where she was working at a microbrewery in portland. also, alice and quentin's shared joke during ada jo's birth comes from the lemon demon song "touch tone telephone," which i will associate with alice quinn until the day i die- shoutout to my sister for making the connection. 
> 
> these first two chapters are set in the "past," relatively speaking. starting with chapter three, things will be taking place several years into the future, when the girls are seven or eight.


	3. i grew with you and now i've changed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i know it’s been. a WHILE since i updated this? i am so sorry lmao, everything has been really wild lately with, like, the general state of things at the moment. next chapter should be up a whole lot quicker! this chapter’s unofficial title is The One With The Meet-Cute. chapter title from “cosmonauts” by fiona apple bc hale was listening to fetch the bolt cutters on his insta story the other day, so.

**ELIOT, NOW. AUGUST. PORTLAND, OR.**

Eliot is woken up by pain. 

This is a fun element of his life that happens now, with a frequency comparable to how often he would wake up hungover (or, better yet, still crossfaded off his tits) back in undergrad, and all through the one halcyon year he and Margo had spent at Brakebills.

He spends a moment idly wondering why the fuck he followed Margo out to Portland, of all places, when he lives inside a body that likes to morph itself into an incandescent bolt of pain whenever it rains, which is _fucking always,_ here. But then he remembers that he would follow her to the ends of the Earth, and besides, neither of them had known this would happen back when they’d made the decision to move west. He doesn’t begrudge her anything; he’s just cranky, and his leg aches, and his side hurts like a bitch.

He lays in bed for a moment with his eyes closed, fighting back a wave of nausea that comes at the thought of moving. He’s trying to summon up the will to roll over enough to grab a pill from his nightstand when he hears the door to his bedroom swing open, and he sighs, smiling faintly.

“Morning, kiddo,” he mumbles, patting the space next to him. “Careful, though, not too fast.”

“Good morning, daddy,” Violet chirps, and he feels the mattress dip a bit as she settles lightly on the edge of the bed. “Pain day?”

“Pain day,” he agrees. “Can you-” 

“Pill, cane, Gin Fizz,” she recites, and he’s struck for a moment by the difference between what each of those words mean to him _now_ compared to what they meant back before he had her.

“My hero,” he says, and he cracks open an eye to watch as his daughter opens the drawer in his nightstand and taps a pill out from the bottle. She wouldn’t, because she’s much smarter than he ever was and he likes to think he’s raised her relatively well, but he’s also pretty sure you’re supposed to keep an eye on your children when they’re handling your pharmaceuticals, so direct line-of-sight supervision it is. She folds the pill into his hand and passes him his water bottle, and he thanks her before swallowing down his singular, physician-prescribed capsule of CBD. Which is _not_ the fun kind that gets you high, thank you very much, because it’s 6:30 on a Monday morning, and while he _does_ live in Portland, there’s a time and a place for responsible adult usage of recreational marijuana, and that time and place is occasional Saturday nights at Bambi’s apartment, not anywhere else, not _with_ anyone else, not often, and _certainly_ nowhere near Violet.

Fen calls it _everything in moderation,_ his therapist calls it _harm reduction,_ his doctor calls it _easier on his liver and safer than opioids given his history of addictive personality,_ and Margo calls it _going soft_ with a fond, proud look on her face like it’s the compliment they both know it is, but.

He’s doing a lot better, these days. _These past eight years, really,_ he thinks. God, is he getting old? Disgusting.

Violet passes him his cane from its usual spot, leaned against the wall by his bedroom door, and he uses it to help leverage himself upright while she leaves in search of the elusive third item on the _Eliot Waugh’s Pain Management Trifecta_ list, wincing at the twin stabs of pain in his leg and stomach as he shifts from lying down to sitting up, but it’s _fine,_ his pill will kick in soon. He doesn’t always need his cane, only when the weather is especially ugly or he’s walking long distances, but it helps to have it on bad mornings while he takes a moment to get his bearings.

He grabs his phone off the nightstand and sorts through the notifications he’s accrued since last night: a text from Margo, a few messages in the coven groupchat, a good morning snap from Fen. Margo would hunt him for sport if he woke her before 9, so he won’t bother texting her, but Fen doesn’t usually leave for work until 7:45, so he pulls up his text thread with _sister wife💕_ and taps out a quick message, _first day of school breakfast with vi and i? offer’s open if you’re still home._ He replies to an email about floral arrangements for the lesbian wedding he’s planning, and then he checks the weather to start figuring out what the fashion situation is going to look like today. He’s not worried about rain, no one in Portland ever seems to bother with raincoats. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a Columbia fleece, and besides, if it starts raining too hard he can always just spell himself with Fallon’s Hydrophobic Planar Skin. Portable _temperature_ charms, on the other hand, are an exhausting bitch and a half to keep up, and thermodynamics give him a headache, so if it’s going to be cold, he’d rather just layer. 

Violet returns with an armful of grumpy black cat who, upon seeing Eliot, promptly dislodges herself from his daughter’s grasp, landing on the bed and making a beeline for Eliot’s lap, where she curls up contentedly and begins to purr. 

“Good morning to you too, Gin Fizz,” Eliot says, petting her behind her ears. “Thanks, honey. Where was she?”

“She was hiding in the bathtub again,” Violet says, hopping up onto the bed to join them. She’s already dressed for the day, her favorite jeans with the ripped knees paired with baby pink Doc Martens, and a cream leather jacket from Target over his old Britney Spears tee shirt from that one time he and Margo had portal hopped to Vegas to catch one of her residency shows. It shrunk in the wash right around the time he started teaching Violet how to do laundry, and he could have easily spelled it back into shape, but it’s cuter on her anyway. She definitely doesn’t get _all_ her fashion sense from him, but he can always appreciate a nod to Brit, and she’s clearly still gonna flex on everyone else in the second grade, which is what matters. 

With the ease and familiarity of any good routine, she moves to sit cross-legged on the bed in front of Eliot, her back turned to him, and he wordlessly starts parting her hair and gathering it into a pair of Dutch braids.

“Yeah, that tracks,” he says, tying off one braid with an elastic from the pack he keeps in his nightstand drawer for this exact purpose, and starting on the next. “So. How are we feeling? Are we nervous? Excited? Upset? Talk to me here, what’s the vibe?”

Violet hums for a moment, considering, before finally settling on “Annoyed, I think. Is that bad?”

Eliot’s heart twists with sympathy. This is hard for her, and the first half of the summer had been especially rough, but she’s resilient, and he’s proud of how much better she seems to be coping with the generally disappointing state of things lately. “I’m probably not supposed to say this, but I can’t say I blame you, sweetheart. The whole situation is pretty bullshit. But I think you know the answer to that last bit, there.”

She sighs, and he catches her thoroughly impressive eye roll reflected in his bedroom mirror. Definitely Margo’s influence, right there. “It’s not bad, because it’s a feeling, and feelings aren’t bad or good things to have, they’re just feelings, even if they make you feel shitty,” she recites with the textbook disdain of a child subjected to rote memorization, which. Mood.

“Yeah, you and me both, kid,” he says, tying off her second braid, “but one of us pays two hundred an hour to hear that shit, so we might as well get some mileage out of it. Breakfast?”

“Yes please!” Violet bounces up off the bed, and the proximal motion _doesn’t_ make him feel like he’s on a ride at Six Flags, which means his body has finally decided to sort its shit out, which means it’s time to start the day. “Can we do bagels?”

“That depends, are you actually going to eat your lox, or are you going to try to feed it to Gin under the table again?” he teases, gently dislodging the cat from his lap as he reaches for his cane and stands up. “I will remind the defendant that she is under oath.”

“You said I should never do perjury,” she says with a smirk, pronouncing perjury a little wrong, emphasis on the second syllable, and he would ruffle her hair if he hadn’t just spent ten minutes braiding it for her. She’s such a good kid.

“I said you should never _commit_ perjury, Violet, and that’s not quite- you know what, whatever, I dig the transparency. I need to get dressed, can you-” 

“Feed Gin, water the plants, start the coffee pot, get my lunchbox out of the fridge, set the table.” She rattles off her daily morning chores, counting them on her fingers, pausing as there’s a knock at the door. “And let Aunt Fen in, I guess?”

“Atta girl.”

\---

If someone had told Eliot back in undergrad that he would one day be able to get ready for the day inside of thirty minutes, waistcoat and eyeliner and all, he would have laughed in their face. Violet as a toddler, however, had been a force to be reckoned with, and the impressions she had left in his daily routine proved to be firm and unyielding, even five years down the line. 

He finds Fen and Violet sitting together at the kitchen table, Fen’s perennial mountain of case files and a plate of toasted bagels between them. He snags one for himself, pressing tiny fond kisses to each of their foreheads before beginning the process of applying the perfect amount of cream cheese, a feat equal parts art and science. He’s making his way towards the fridge to see if they have any smoked salmon left or if he’ll need to put it on the Trader Joe’s list for later, when the unthinkable happens. 

Gin Fizz, a wily creature both unsympathetic and relentless in her pursuit of salmon, weaves her way underfoot and swipes at his ankles. He stumbles, bagel weaseling out of his hands and hurtling itself on a collision course with the floor, cream cheese side down of course, because life imitates art and this particular Monday morning has decided to cast him in a recreation of the scene where Harley Quinn drops her beloved bodega sandwich in _Birds of Prey._

It’s falling too fast for him to intervene with his telekinesis in any effective manner, so he’s mentally resigning himself to the inevitability of having to clean cream cheese up off the hardwood when the familiar salt-copper-ink-incense tang of magic blooms in his nose, cloying and overwhelming. He gets the uniquely discomfiting sense that reality is a deck of cards shuffling itself around him, and when he blinks, the bagel has somehow landed right-side-up. He feels his temples ache a little as his brain tries to reconcile what he had seen _before_ with the fact of what he’s now seeing _after,_ trying to meet in the middle but coming up empty.

“Holy moly. Still not used to that,” Fen says, blinking a little and shaking her head to clear it. “Morning, El.”

“You too, Fen. Violet, what did I say about tychokinesis before noon?” He sighs, rescuing his bagel from the floor before joining her and Fen at the table. What? Five second rule. 

The aftershock of- _hospital_ smell coats his throat. Violet’s signature. _Internal circumstances,_ he thinks, bitterly. _Fuck ‘em._ It curls against the roof of his mouth and makes him suppress a gag, sense memory still stomach-twisting even four years after the fact. He wraps an arm around his daughter and holds her tight for a moment, an unspoken reminder for them both that he’s _here,_ that he’s _okay._

Violet giggles and ducks her head in a sheepish little laugh, which- okay, adorable. It helps ground him. “Sorry! I couldn’t help it, it’s a reflex!” 

He casts a performatively unamused glance her way as he takes a seat.

“That’s probably _more_ concerning for your father to hear, honey, not less,” Fen murmurs into the pages of the case file she’s poring over, and Eliot snorts a laugh. 

“She’s not wrong,” he says, but he smiles at Violet anyway, because _stressing for her sake_ and _angry at her_ are two very, very different things, and it’s. Important, to him. That she always knows the difference. “But it was impressive, so I’ll let it slide. Just remember that-”

“I can only do magic at home, at Margo’s, or at the safehouse, not in public or else the muggles will find out,” Violet grumbles, bored sigh and bratty eyeroll and all. “Jesus, Dad, I know. You can stop reminding me.”

“Legally I cannot,” he quips back, and he catches Fen’s proud smile in his peripheral vision despite her efforts to hide it behind a manila envelope. “It’s part of the job description, and I’ve still got another decade left in my contract. Now finish your bagel already so I can take you to school, you rascal. We’re gonna be late.”

Violet sticks her tongue out at him, but she obediently starts scarfing down the rest of her breakfast, so it’s fine. Eliot looks to Fen, who’s still thoroughly engrossed in her pile of paperwork, twirling a strand of hair around her finger absentmindedly as she scans over a document.

“Fen,” he says, pointedly. “It’s 7:50, babe.” 

She looks up at him a moment later, her expression blank. “Hm?” 

He doesn’t say anything, just smiles at her knowingly over his coffee mug as he waits for his words to register.

“Oh, shoot!” Yep, there we go.

Her eyes widen, and she jumps up from the table, sweeping her papers into a haphazard pile and stuffing them back into her briefcase. “Shitballs, thank you, I’m gonna be late. Bye El bye Violet I love you see you later bye!” 

Violet giggles, but because Eliot is not eight years old, he has dignity and also manners, so he just pats Fen’s shoulder fondly in sympathy as she rushes her way out the door. He watches her leave, and then he floats his car keys over to the table from their place by the front door, letting them hang in the air, suspended by his telekinesis. He turns back to Violet, who’s finished eating, and is currently busy sullenly picking at a patch on her pink Kanken backpack. He’s gonna have to have a talk with Margo about spoiling her with gifts from Urban Outfitters.

He clears his throat softly, reaching out to lay one of his hands over both of her tiny ones, stilling the anxious fussing of her fingers. “Alright, kiddo. Second grade waits for no man. Are we ready?”

She shrugs, lets out a quiet sigh of frustration, but she looks up and meets his eyes, returning the sympathetic little smile he’s giving her. “Yeah. Let’s get this over with. Second time’s the charm,” she says, dry, and his heart turns over wetly in his chest, he’s so damn proud of her.

Traditionally, the _third_ time’s the charm, but tradition has never met the Waugh family, so he doesn’t bother correcting her. Instead, he just grins, and squeezes her hand in his, and grabs his car keys out of the air. “That’s my girl.”

“If I have to repeat second grade, can I at least pick the music on the way there?”

“I suppose. I draw the line at Taylor Swift, though.”

“God, dad, ew! No.”

\---

**QUENTIN, NOW. AUGUST. PORTLAND, OR.**

For once in his life, Quentin’s alarm somehow wakes him before AJ does. It’s a small miracle. Someone should call the press, the sky is falling, will wonders ever cease?

He has a precious, indulgent thirty seconds to himself to stretch and yawn and listen to the first few bars of _Out of the Woods_ playing from his phone speakers, and he’s about to blink open his tired eyes when he’s treated to the sound of tiny running footsteps. He grins, and seconds later he’s unceremoniously bludgeoned by fifty pounds of rambunctious, overeager seven-year-old rocketing her way into his bed at top speed.

He _oofs_ out a laugh as her weight punches the breath out of him, and he wraps his arms around her with his eyes still closed, holding her tight as she tries to wiggle away in a fit of giggles.

“Papa, wake _up!_ You have to take me to school, come on, get out of bed,” she laughs, trying to escape. He wrestles her down into the blankets, getting one hand in her short hair and ruffling it, just to hear her delighted shrieks of protest. He laughs as she swats his hand away and weasels her way out of his hold, shoving at his shoulder in an ineffective attempt to push him out of bed. He hears the click of dog paws on the hardwood and the familiar jingling of a collar in the hallway as Teddy pads in from the living room, evidently woken by all the racket and having decided to come investigate.

Quentin finally opens his eyes, and his daughter beams at him, wide and bright and missing a few baby teeth. He grins back at her, holding his arms open for a hug, and she dives in headfirst, tucking her little face against his shoulder.

“Good morning to you too,” he says, mock-grumpy as he smacks a loud kiss against her forehead, laughing when she makes a theatrical noise of disgust and scrubs at the offending spot with the back of her hand. Teddy hops up onto the bed to join them, and Quentin is now being suffocated by both fifty pounds of daughter and seventy pounds of dog, which would probably be annoying if he didn’t love them both so much.

“Teddy, you have to get off of him so he can get out of bed. You’re gonna make me late on my first day,” AJ says sternly, but there’s no real weight behind it, and she’s petting his soft fur, so something tells Quentin she doesn’t really mind all that much.

“He knows I’m not allowed to get out of bed until I take my meds anyway,” he says, scratching him behind his soft golden retriever ears. “You too, kiddo.”

“Oh, right,” Ada Jo says, twisting over to grab the seven-day pill box he keeps on his dresser and the bottle of water he keeps next to it. “Pill time.”

“Pill time,” he agrees, taking the box from her. He fishes his Abilify and multivitamin out of the Monday AM compartment and swallows them both before grabbing her Ritalin from the Monday PM compartment and handing it over, watching her chase it with a sip of water. They both take their pills in the morning, but the box came with fourteen compartments, so AJ had claimed the nighttime side for herself. 

“ _Now_ can we get up?” she asks impatiently, and Quentin laughs.

“Hold on to that Monday morning enthusiasm as long as you can,” he jokes, reaching out to ruffle her hair again. “You’ll miss it by the time you’re in high school. Believe it or not, waking up early kind of stops being fun as you get older.”

“Weird,” she says. “Why do we let grown ups run everything then, if they just wanna sleep all the time?”

“You know, you might be on to something there,” he muses, popping his neck and finally hauling himself upright. “Okay. Let’s go brush our teeth?” he suggests, because he learned a long time ago that the chances of her reliably remembering to do that and not getting distracted along the way are hit or miss at best, so it helps if he’s there to redirect, especially first thing in the morning when her meds are still kicking in. He can relate.

If Quentin’s being honest, having a child has not made him any better at navigating the chaos that people call _morning._ Mommy blogs had promised him that he’d evolve into some sort of weekday warrior, a well-oiled machine capable of conquering the shining, golden hour between seven and eight, but at this point he’s convinced that most mommy blogs are an intricate study in lying to cope. If anything, being a dad has really only served to amplify his frantic rushing and hectic disorganization tenfold. But, lucky for him, AJ is too young to really grasp the concept of judging other people for being general disasters, and it’s not like there are any other adults in his house here to witness him wandering around his messy living room with his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth looking for his keys, so. He’s made peace with the thought of living in his private shame. He’ll figure it out eventually.

In the meantime, though, Coldwater mornings are kind of a contact sport. He manages to wrangle AJ into washing her face and brushing her teeth alongside him in the bathroom, and he makes a polite suggestion that maybe they should _both_ brush their hair, but she is not having that shit at all, which, honestly- fine, it’s fine, whatever. He only has to ask her once to please consider wearing real clothes to her first day of school instead of her Yoda costume from last year’s Halloween, and he manages to catch five free minutes to shave his face and throw some clothes on before she returns, dressed in a pair of leggings and one of her many graphic t-shirts from the little boys’ section of Target, because _Dad, that’s where all the cool shirts are, the ones that have dinosaurs and stuff._ She _does_ have to wear shoes, though, he’s gotta draw the line there, and that difference of opinion launches them back into a rehashing of a longstanding, bitter feud: Ada Josephine Coldwater versus her mortal enemy, shoes. She maintains that they are unilaterally _jail cells for feet,_ which, on the bright side, means that he never has to buy toys for Teddy, because there’s approximately a million discarded pairs of tiny shoes scattered all over the house for him to chew on. It had taken Quentin entirely too long to finally find a pair of shoes she would wear for more than ten minutes at a time, and he thinks the journey might have broken his spirit a little, because when AJ had ultimately deemed that Crocs were vaguely tolerable, he was so relieved that he hadn’t even had it in him to feel the mild horror that Crocs should inspire in any sane, functional adult. Because they are still shoes, however, Crocs remain on thin fucking ice, so Quentin resorts to the best leverage he has: threatening to revoke Falkor privileges. He’s not _proud_ of giving ultimatums, and he really does try to avoid it, but sometimes your kid’s gonna be late on her first day and she won’t put her damn shoes on and you gotta take the high road and tell her it’s either Crocs on feet or the stuffed dragon stays home.

\---

Quentin startles at the loud clatter behind him in the kitchen, nearly spilling his cereal as he turns to locate the source of the sound- a jumble of papers and fridge magnets strewn on the patch of laminate tile in front of his now-bare refrigerator. He thought he had at least a couple of years left before parenting put him on season-three-Joyce-Byers levels of unhinged-over-fridge-magnets, but he may have been underestimating his daughter’s commitment to giving him gray hair before he turns 35.

He turns back to the table, where said daughter is suddenly regarding her cereal bowl with a suspicious amount of focus. He sighs, checking the time on his watch, and yeah, he’s going to have to just...leave the mess there and deal with it later, because his telekinesis isn’t refined enough to get it all back on the fridge in any kind of organized manner, and he doesn’t have enough time to put it all back by hand before they need to leave to catch their train.

“Okay, so, um,” he starts, scrubbing a hand over his face, keeping his voice mild and drawing on the near-infinite well of patience he’s spent the last seven and a half years cultivating. “I’m not mad, but just, like, for future reference, mornings when we’re trying to get to school on time probably aren’t? The best time, to practice magic, really? So if we could, like. Save that for after I pick you up in the afternoon, that might be better.”

“Yeah, okay. Sorry,” AJ says around her last mouthful of cereal. “I just wanted to get it out of my system before I go to school, like how you let me run around right before bed to get all my wiggles out.”

“So you won’t be tempted to do any magic at school, you mean?” he says, taking their empty bowls to the sink, stepping carefully over all the fridge magnets on the way.

“Yeah!” she says, seeming to perk back up a little. “Just like we talked about. Cause you said it’s really important that I don’t do any magic around strangers, only you and Aunt Julia and Alice.”

He smiles at her. She’s such a good kid, really. “I’m proud of you for remembering,” he says, rinsing the bowls and loading them into the dishwasher. “And...yeah, okay, sure, we can do that. One little spell each morning or something, if you think it would help.” 

He mentally cringes at the thought of building something new into a morning schedule that’s stressful enough as is, and the thought of helping his seven year old with her natural inclination for electromagnetic manipulation at seven AM is a little horrifying because Gauss’s law of electric flux doesn’t make sense even when he’s _not_ tired, and he’ll miss the extra ten minutes of sleep it’s going to cost him, but. 

If it’ll make her day a little easier, then, well. You make sacrifices for the people you love. 

Judging by her triumphant, overjoyed little _yay-papa-thank-you-I-love-you-you’re-the-best!!!_ and the way she rushes over to hug one of his legs so tight he almost loses his balance, he’s pretty sure this one’s worth it.

\---

So, okay, Quentin knows that dogs aren’t allowed on the MAX unless they’re in a carrier? He knows that. But Teddy is, like, a reasonably good boy, and being able to combine his morning walk and taking AJ to school into one errand saves him so much time, and what’s even the point of spending three entire years getting a literal degree in magic if he can’t Jedi mind trick a lightrail attendant or two into letting him bring his dog on the train? 

Okay, yeah, no, he still feels bad about it. But they were running super late this morning, so. Just this once. And having Teddy with them means that AJ gets to give him one last goodbye pet on the sidewalk outside the elementary school. 

“Do I have to stay _all day?_ ” she asks plaintively, scuffing her Crocs over the edge of the _WELCOME BACK TO SCHOOL!_ banner drawn in sidewalk chalk on the concrete. “What if my teacher’s mean when you’re not there? Or the other kids?”

“Hey, okay, um,” he says, glancing around to be sure he’s not in anyone’s way before crouching to her eye level. She looks at him with those wide blue eyes that are all Alice, the sad set of her mouth passed down from him. “If you’re having, like, a terrible time, of course you can come home, baby. Just ask your teacher to call me at recess or something, if it’s really bad. But I think you should try to stay all day, because this school is gonna be better for you than your last one, okay? You’ve met Miss Plum with me before, and she was really nice, remember? I’ve talked to her several times, and you’ve got your IEP and your 504 plan this year, and she’s gonna let you take breaks and stuff if you need to. I can’t promise that other kids will be nice, but you can’t know until you meet them, right?”

“Yeah, I guess,” she says, shrugging her shoulders a little. “Miss Plum _did_ seem pretty nice.”

“Yeah, see? There we go. I think you’re gonna like it here, honey,” he says, his throat feeling a little tight suddenly as he tucks a strand of her hair back behind her ear, stubbornly blinking back the prickly feeling behind his eyes. What? First days are hard, and as glad as he is to have some time in his schedule to get things done at home, he knows he’s going to miss her. He pulls her in for a hug, and she tucks her face against his neck like she always has. He runs a hand over her shoulder blades in an instinctive attempt to soothe, to reassure.

Over her shoulder, he spots another man just outside the entrance to the school, across the lawn. He’s somewhat confusingly dressed in a fashion that somehow comes across as both modern and Victorian, and he’s got one hand wrapped around the ornate handle of an elegant black and silver cane. His other hand is held tight by a girl about AJ’s age, or maybe a bit older. His daughter, probably, Quentin thinks, he must be dropping her off. There’s not much resemblance between them, at least not at a distance, and he’s too far away to make out any features, but her outfit is just as absurdly fashionable as his. He watches as the man leans his cane against the outside of the building and tugs one of his impeccably tailored pants legs up an inch or two to kneel gracefully on the concrete, putting himself at eye level with his daughter. He speaks to her softly, giving her his full attention, his hands fussing over the ends of her braids and the lapels of her tiny leather jacket as they talk. 

He’s objectively handsome in a way that’s honestly kind of bewildering, like some kind of Oscar Wilde fever dream. As he watches the man from afar, Quentin catches himself inexplicably picturing what those hands might look like mid-cast, all those rings catching the light, fingers twisting through the intricate motions of a long Popper series. 

_Jesus, okay, what,_ he thinks, shaking his head a little to clear the thought. It doesn’t even make sense, there’s no way the man is a magician, like, statistically speaking. He can practically hear Julia telling him it’s been too long since the last time he got laid. She might have a point.

The man turns to press a kiss to his daughter’s temple, and because nothing in Quentin’s life has ever been easy, as he turns, he notices Quentin staring at him. 

The normal human response when someone catches you staring at them is for you to _look away,_ but, the thing is- Quentin kind of can’t? He can’t. Look away, that is, Jesus, _what._ He can’t tell what color the man’s eyes are from this far away, but it’s like he can _feel_ a weight and intensity behind the man’s gaze, even from thirty feet away. Quentin tries to will away the blush he can already feel heating his face, but the man just smiles at him, a wide grin spreading slowly across his face, and honestly fuck this, because it’s like, _unfairly_ pretty, and what is he even supposed to _do_ with that besides offer a nervous smile in return. He realizes he’s wearing a hoodie, and he tries to remember the last time he washed his hair. Whatever. At least he tied it back today.

AJ saves him though, because she decides she’s done being hugged now, and she wiggles her way out of his arms. He’s more than happy for the excuse to put the other man out of his mind, shift all his focus back onto his daughter. He stands up and loops Teddy’s leash around his wrist, leaving both his hands free.

“Secret handshake?” she says eagerly, flashing her dimples at him in a laugh.

“Secret handshake,” he says.

They fist-bump, high-five, elbow, and jazz-hands their way through the Coldwaters-only secret handshake they’d come up with last summer, after AJ had decided she was jealous of him and Julia’s old handshake from seventh grade. He presses one last kiss to her forehead, and then the warning bell is ringing, and he’s waving goodbye as she skips in through the doors.

He turns to start walking back to the lightrail station, and he spots the man in the parking lot, unlocking a car, some sleek little dove gray two-seater that looks expensive and old and vaguely European. Quentin has no idea what make it is, he never got around to learning how cars work. The man catches his eyes again over the roof of the car, offers him a little wave and another dazzling smirk, looking vaguely amused, and- yeah, okay, Quentin has to leave, like, right now, this is not, nope, time to go home.

He gives the man an awkward smile in return, trying to figure out some way to politely indicate from a distance that he’s heading out, but then Teddy starts pulling him down the sidewalk, so that’s that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry again that it took me so long to write this chapter. in my defense, the world kinda fell apart on me?? chapter 4 won’t take as long, i promise. i'm writing plum chatwin as violet & aj's teacher, mostly because i loved her in the show and wanted to find a way to work her into this! also, IEP/504 plans are formal accommodation plans for kids who need extra support or accommodations in school (for learning disabilities, etc.) this chapter was so fun to write, things are finally starting to come together. thanks for reading, i hope you liked this chapter! as always kudos and comments mean the absolute world!


	4. you've got me feelin like my tongue is a machete

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, um. this was supposed to be way shorter than it was? sorry about that, oops. i’ve already started writing chapter five, and everything that happens in that chapter was supposed to happen in this one, but this got way too long, so i decided to break it into two chapters so that i could at least pretend to have some sort of consistency when it comes to chapter length. chapter title from savage by watsky bc its a bop. general warning for a brief (vague, not-at-all-graphic) moment that touches on abuse in this chapter- eliot has some anxiety over being stern with violet because it reminds him of his own childhood.

**ELIOT, NOW. AUGUST. PORTLAND, OR.**

Eliot is halfway home and halfway through the first chorus of _Hounds of Love_ when Margo calls. His phone rings twice, three times, as he scrambles to fish it out of his back pocket with one hand and drop the Porsche into second gear with the other, mindful of the brake lights lit up on the SUV in front of him. He’s in the middle of dispelling the homebrew aux cord charm on the radio when the call rings through to voicemail. Shit. It’s just after 8, and if Margo’s awake that early, something must be happening with the coven, but whatever, it’s fine.

He calls her back at the next red light, and she picks up on the first ring. 

“You’d better be driving, Waugh.”

He laughs. “Please, Bambi, when _else_ do I miss your calls? I’m halfway home, turning onto Burnside.”

She gives a pleased hum, her voice rich and teasing. “You know I only let it slide because you drive stick, right?”

“And here I was thinking it’s because you love me,” he quips back fondly, checking his mirrors as he changes lanes. “Don’t question my loyalty, bitch, I paused Kate Bush for you. Anyway. You’re up early, where’s the fire?”

“That cock from the Library finally got back to me,” she says. “Apparently they’ve decided to give us the time of day. We have a meeting today at noon with the branch in Arlington Heights, are you free, or do I have to take Fray?”

“Shit, okay, you could have led with that. I can make it. I had a call scheduled with the florist at twelve thirty, but I’ll push it.”

“You’re a doll, I owe you one. Now come home already, we need to go over logistics and I want shakshuka.”

“I’ll be there in five. And,” he says, pausing dramatically as he makes the left onto their street. “I come bearing drama.”

“School drama, coven drama, or client drama?”

“It’s actually _boy_ drama, this time. Scandalous, I know.”

“Ooh, mama’s favorite,” Margo says, and he can hear her smirk over the phone. “About damn time for you to start slutting around again. I was starting to wonder who you were and what you did with my best friend.”

“Okay, I’m well aware of my dry spell, thank you,” he grumbles, but it’s just for show. “We can’t all be you and Fen, spending our free time ensuring that the apartment can double as a Jackson Pollock painting under a black light.”

“I know,” she chirps primly. “Now park and get your ass up here already, I can see you down there in the lot.”

“Yessir,” he says as he turns into his designated parking spot beside the red Audi convertible he helped her, shall we say, _liberate_ from a dealership for her birthday last year. Heists are, and will forever be, his Bambi’s favorite birthday presents. “You left the top down again, do you want me to put it up for you? It’s supposed to rain.”

“Ugh, it’s _always_ supposed to rain, El,” she complains. “Fuckin’ Portland.”

“Fucking Portland,” he agrees, blithe. “So I’m assuming that’s a yes?”

“Aww, I love it when you clean up my messes,” Margo coos at him over the phone, saccharine sweet, her voice lined in fond affection. “Love you, bitch.”

She hangs up on him without another word, and he can’t help but smile as he pulls the soft top back up. He’s a lucky man. Margo’s kind of the greatest.

\---

“He’s, like, farmer’s market hot. There was a golden retriever and a man bun involved,” he says, stirring the tomato sauce one last time before cracking the first egg into the pan. “I swear to God, it’s like he was grown for me in a lab, Margo. When I caught him staring at me he actually _blushed._ Like, full on.”

“Jesus, El. Could your virgin corruption kink _get_ any louder?” Margo smirks at him from her perch on the countertop next to the stove. She’s holding a mimosa in one hand and Blair Villanelle, her absolute bitch of a Chihuahua, in the other. “I’m kidding, I think I like this for you. I know you love a good fuckable nerd. How straight are we thinking?”

Eliot sighs, cracking the last egg into the sauce and covering the pan to let them poach while he washes his hands. Cooking in Margo and Fen’s kitchen is still a little bit of a mind-fuck, no matter how many years they’ve lived here. His apartment is on the east side of the building and hers is on the west, so the floorplans are like mirror images of each other. “Honestly? I have no idea. I couldn’t get a good enough read on him, he was too far away. He could be anywhere from ‘I have opinions on early Britney’ to ‘I’m straight but I give head.’”

Margo hums in thought, scratching Blair behind her ears. “What kind of shoes did he have on? I keep telling you, Eliot, it’s all in the shoes. Dead giveaway.”

“Ah, yes, the shoe trick, how could I forget.” He gets a plate down from the cabinet and tries to think back to what the man had been wearing. “Boots? I think? Dark, maybe Chelseas, but there might have been laces, I was too far away.”

“In August? Oh, bi, easy,” Margo says. “Kinsey 2.5, maybe. Or he could be into pegging.”

“Yeah? I can probably make that work,” he says, ladling Margo’s eggs out onto her plate with a couple generous spoonfuls of the tomato pepper sauce, sprinkling a handful of crumbled feta on top before passing it to her. “Shakshuka as requested, darling.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” she says, tossing her head back and moaning theatrically at the first bite. “He better marry you before I do, Jesus. So good.” 

“Glad to hear it,” he says, dropping a small kiss on her forehead and loading the pan into the dishwasher. “I’ll be sure to tell him you said so.”

She levels a playful glare at him, flashing her big brown eyes. “Is this gonna turn into a thing? Because it had better not. I know it’s August, El, but I’m not excusing you from coven business just so you can chase cute boys.”

“But Bambi, it’s DILF season,” he pouts, reaching a hand out in an attempt to pet Blair. She snaps at him, which, like. Typical.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Margo says. “You can get your dick wet after our meeting. The most I think we’ll be able to get out of them is supervised quarterly access to the non-restricted sections.”

“Since when does Margo Hanson, High King of the Twin Sorrows of the Pearl, settle for the best case scenario?” he asks, propping an elbow on the counter. “That might be what they’re willing to offer, but the real question is what _you_ want them to agree to.”

She smiles at him, all shark teeth and iron will. “That’s why I have you, emissary Waugh. I’m gonna sit there and look pretty while you play good cop and get them to agree to full walk-in access. All areas. It can be supervised if they insist on being limp shrivelled cocks about it, but I want the exclusive right to walk in there with my head held high whenever the fuck I please, and if they can’t agree to that, I’m going full Jennifer Check on their ass while you watch and clap. Their little Ivy League book club is over, El. A hedge from Wounded Star of the Willamette _died_ last month trying to cast Prayer to Xiuhtecuhtli from scraps. The Library can act like every coven looks like the back half of an Ari Aster movie all they want, but I didn’t claw together the Accords with my bare fucking hands for _fun_. I did it because it’s my fucking job to keep our corner of this city alive, and that would be a hell of a lot easier if hedges weren’t flying blind half the time, blowing each other up, or blowing _themselves_ up, over half a spell.”

Eliot can’t help but grin. She’s a miracle. He’s so fucking in love with her and everything she is, and there’s not a soul on this planet or any other that deserves to understand the wild shape of that love. He’s not sure that anyone else is even _capable_ of understanding what they have, and he’s not about to cheapen it by trying to explain it, to verbally reduce it to some tidy, picture-perfect, easy-to-swallow package tied with a bow.

“Full access it is, then,” he says. “I’ll get us as close as I can, Bambi.”

She hops off the counter to put her plate in the sink, kissing his cheek as she goes and setting Blair down gently on the kitchen tile. She promptly scampers out of the room on her tiny paws to go do... whatever it is that dogs do in their free time, dog things, Eliot’s not sure. 

“I love it when you put your stupid diplomatic Libra moon to work for me, baby,” Margo says. “I’ll try not to leave too many bodies in our wake. I might get bored, though, so. No promises.”

“That’s all I could ask for,” he says, pulling her slight frame into his arms for a hug. She goes easily, folding herself into him. He cradles the back of her head to his chest with one palm, ducking down to kiss her hair.

They stand like that for a bit in the kitchen, just enjoying the comfort of touch, breathing in each other’s familiar smells. She pulls back a bit after a moment to stand in front of him, her arms looped around his neck. He sets his hands on the curve of her waist, and she beams up at him with that dazzling smile of hers.

“How’s Vi?” she asks. “Was today as tits-up as you were worried it was gonna be?”

He sighs, and with the safety of Margo’s arms around him, he decides to give himself space to feel all the nauseous sympathy and concern and worry he’s spent the last week swallowing back. “It wasn’t as bad as I expected, but I’m worried that might just be a sign that she’s internalizing everything instead of talking to me about it.”

“Well, she is her father’s daughter,” Margo says, her voice soft and kind. “I wouldn’t be surprised. She’s a tough little thing though, honey. She’ll bounce back, she always does. And this year’s not gonna suck as much, you said so yourself.”

“I know,” he says. “She’s got her 504 now, not that the district was any help at all with setting _that_ up, but whatever. I still just feel like it’s my fault, like I should have seen it sooner before it got bad enough for them to hold her back.”

“Eliot, sweetie, you gotta stop blaming yourself. It’s not a good look on you. And you know damn well you didn’t just _miss_ it, because that kid can’t even lose a fucking eyelash without you noticing. So you know as well as I do that it’s not a matter of, like, neglect, or whatever it is you’ve been telling yourself.”

“Then what _happened,_ Margo?” he says, and he thinks he meant to snap at her, a little frustrated and a lot bitchy, but instead it just comes out sounding sad. “I pay attention. I’m supposed to notice when things are happening with her.”

Margo looks up at him incredulously. “Have you considered, for even one second, that maybe you _couldn’t_ see it, or have you just spent the whole summer being a tit-licking sad sack and blaming yourself without even bothering to tell me about it? You’re lucky you’re so pretty. It’s not that you don’t pay attention to her, El. It’s that you’re human and we have more blind spots than a Chevy Suburban with end stage glaucoma. I know I give you a lot of shit over it, but it’s not like reading is easy for you either, for whatever reason. You weren’t in any position to be an objective observer, because your baseline is trying to read a paragraph and feeling like you’re being waterboarded in Gitmo. And that’s not her fault, and it’s not yours, and it’s not new, it’s just life chafing our dicks like always.”

“Well, when you put it so sweetly.”

“Shut up, asshole, I’m not wrong.”

“You never are,” he sighs, brushing her hair back behind her ear. “Doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it, though.”

“Someone’s gotta bully you a little,” she says, but she says it like _I love you._ “Better me than you. When you do it it’s insider trading.”

“Can’t have that,” he says mildly, but she’s right, she’s good at lovingly harassing him out of his own head, and he feels better now that he’s talked to her. “I wish I knew why I can’t read.”

“Who the fuck knows,” she says, shrugging. “It could be a lot of things, El. Could be the drugs. Could be the childhood head trauma. Maybe a bitch just needs glasses, which I still think you’d look hot in, for the record. We can get into it if you want, try to get you some answers, but in the meantime, you’ve got me and you’ve got Audible and Violet’s got teachers who went to school for this shit, baby. She’s gonna be okay. I know it, and you do too, so buck up, sunshine, because-”

His phone rings.

Margo grabs it out of his pocket and answers it for him, because of course she does, and he happily lets her. He can’t hear what’s being said on the other end of the line, but he watches her face, and he knows it’s not good news.

“Of course,” she says. “I’ll let him know right away, he’ll be there as soon as he can.” She hangs up and hands him his phone back, and he already knows, but a quick glance down at the screen confirms that the call was from Violet’s school.

“Scale of one to ten?” he asks, frowning.

Margo just hums and pats his cheek sweetly in response. “I’ll tell Fray she’s on standby. Violet’s okay, but it sounds like she needs you more than I do right now. Go be with her.”

“Who are you and what have you done with my bambi,” he says, dry through the worry caught in his throat, but Margo has backed him as thoroughly on this, on _parenting,_ as she has on all his other adventures, so it’s a joke and they both know it. He says it mostly just to have something to _say_ while he sifts through the cloud of vague panic fogging in his brain. It had only been two hours since he had dropped her off, what could have possibly-

“I met your daughter,” Margo says softly, “and I saw how much she loves you, and I decided it was about time I learn to share. Now go, El, and don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl and I can handle myself. She’s your only priority right now, and if I catch you trying to worry about anything else, _especially_ me or the coven, I’ll flay you neck to nuts for it, and I’m not exactly keen on fisting your chest cavity again anytime soon. I love you. Never feel bad for putting her first. Now _go._ ”

“Okay,” he says, already running the numbers on how long it will take him to get there with traffic, calling over his cane from where it’s resting in the umbrella stand, his keys from the hook by the door. “Thank you. I love you. I’ll try to be there by noon, if I can, but-”

“That was an _order,_ emissary Waugh,” she says, pointedly raising one perfect brow at him, flint in her eyes. For just a moment, she’s not his Bambi, the tiny, formidable woman he met at Brakebills, came to know soul-deep during the Trials, and subsequently befriended over countless hours spent on shrooms together watching Gossip Girl in the Cottage. For a moment, the woman before him is his High King, Margo Hanson of the Twin Sorrows of the Pearl, and for just a fraction of a second, he thinks he can see what it might be like to be on the other end of her axes, instead of standing at her side. It’s fucking terrifying, which explains a _lot_ about how she gets shit done in this city. She smiles at him knowingly, and in the flash of it he can almost see her twinned blades, glinting and catching the light.

\---

**QUENTIN, NOW. AUGUST. PORTLAND, OR.**

Quentin’s pulled out of focus by Teddy nosing at his leg and whining, and- he checks the time and shit, yeah, he should take a break, let Teddy out to pee. Eat something, probably, and stretch his wrists. His hands are cramped from sewing, and his stomach growls a little in discontent.

Carefully removing his mask and gloves, he gets up from his desk and stretches his arms up above his head, his neck and shoulders sore from hunching over the book he’d been restoring for Alice. He’s been negotiating with this book for weeks now, trying to coax it back to health, but it’s an ancient volume in Old Church Slavonic and the years have not been kind to it, so casting on it kind of feels like trying to do origami with wet single-ply tissue paper. Aside from the controlled-environment spell he’d set up to isolate it from humidity, UV rays, and rogue spilled coffee in an effort to both avoid any additional damage to the book and, like, maybe also protect his living room from its weird thousand-year-old book fungus, he’s been trying to stick to manual restoration as much possible. Since getting home from dropping off AJ, he’s spent most of the morning sewing up some more of the binding. He takes a moment to shore up the controlled-environment spell with a few tuts and cast an efficient but thorough disinfecting charm on his desk, himself, and the surrounding area, because some of the mold on that thing was _real_ funky looking, and he’s got, like, zero plans to fuck around and find out what ancient Baltic fungal pneumonia feels like.

On his way to the kitchen to wash up and figure out what to do for lunch, he sees the pile of papers and artwork and fridge magnets still strewn across the kitchen floor, and- yeah, okay, he’d forgotten that was there. He spends several minutes getting _that_ sorted, and then he makes himself a quesadilla and wolfs it down while he goes through the familiar motions of getting ready to take Teddy to the park; shoes, jacket, keys, water bottle, tennis ball, leash, _oh my God, Teddy, I know you’re excited, but if you don’t sit still I can’t get your leash on._

He’s almost to the park when Julia calls. 

“Hey,” he says, knowing she can hear the smile in his voice. “You caught me on my break. I’m taking Teddy to the park so he can run around a bit. What’s up?”

“Everything, naturally,” she says, “it’s Brakebills. I just thought I’d call and see how back-to-school was going for those of us _outside_ the wards.”

“Let me guess,” he laughs, “entrance exams were a total shitshow?”

“Oh, you know, shit’s normal,” she chirps, sounding warm and wry. “All fucked up.”

Fuck, he misses her _so_ much. “Would you say the incoming first-years are _more_ screwed up and messy than we were, or, like, less?” he jokes.

“If I ever have to admit a class even _half_ as bad as ours, I’m sending Fogg a fruit basket,” she says. “I’m up to my elbows in raw talent, with this year’s bunch. We ended up admitting practically everyone we invited. So far they all seem relatively chill, though, so there’s that.”

“Chill? As in, like, well-adjusted? Sorry, for a moment there I thought we were talking about Brakebills students,” he deadpans.

“Well-adjusted is a stretch, I wouldn’t go _that_ far,” she mutters, and he laughs. “But I have yet to be roped into resolving any interpersonal disputes. It’s not like I’m complaining, I get more than enough drama at home.”

“Brakebills drama sounds way more exciting, but wedding planning drama probably has less chance of ending in death or dismemberment,” he reasons, sympathetic.

“Say that again _after_ you try discussing lilies versus peonies with my mother, Coldwater, I dare you.”

He laughs, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder as he fumbles to open the gate to the dog park, half-distracted trying to play referee for first impressions between Teddy and a very overeager Australian shepherd.

“How’s Kady enjoying getting caught in the crossfire of Wicker family event planning?” he asks, closing the gate behind him and letting Teddy off leash.

“Exactly how you’d expect,” she says, and they both laugh. “It’s been better since we hired an actual wedding planner. Kady doesn’t really mind it that much, I think she mostly just wishes my mom would stop picking fights with me over every little thing, which is honestly really sweet. I can tell she hates seeing me this stressed. You know how she gets.”

“Protective,” he says in agreement.

“It’s a butch thing,” Julia says, still sounding every bit as warm and lovesick as she has since day one. “All the gallant chivalry, I mean. She’s pretty great. Anyway, you never actually answered my original question, Coldwater.”

“Shit, sorry. What, uh. What was the question, again?”

“You’re hopeless,” she says, not unkindly. “I asked you how back to school went, for you and AJ. Today’s her first day, right?”

“Oh, right, sorry. She went back this morning, yeah. It went pretty well, just, like. Your standard-issue Coldwater morning? So, pretty chaotic, but like, that’s par for the course at this point, honestly. I got her there on time and wearing shoes and she seemed happy to be there, so I’m counting it as a win. She was a little anxious, but nothing major, we talked it out.”

“Definitely a win, if shoes were involved. I’m glad, Q. It sounds like you’ve had a pretty good morning.”

“You could say that, yeah,” he says, finding himself suddenly remembering the mysterious hot man from earlier. Teddy makes his way back over with a stick in his mouth, and Quentin throws it for him to chase after.

There’s a brief pause, and he can practically see Julia narrowing her eyes at him over the phone. “You’re leaving something out of this story, aren’t you?”

“God, stop _doing_ that, it’s genuinely kind of scary,” he grumbles, and she laughs, high and bright.

“Please,” she says. “I’ve been winning the best-friend-sixth-sense competition since third grade. You can pry this twenty five year winning streak from my cold, dead hands.”

“Why are you so weirdly competitive,” he snarks back, but it’s an _I love you_ and they both know it. “And _fine,_ God, so maybe there was a, like, stupidly hot guy at AJ’s school dropping his kid off, except he was, like, hot in a way that was honestly really confusing? He looked like a Victorian era ghost with plus six to charisma.”

“Wow. Twenty five years into knowing you, and I still can’t figure out what your type is,” Julia jokes.

“You and me both, Jules, join the club,” he says. “Anyway, we uh. May or may not have made extended, super fucking awkward eye contact, like, _twice,_ and _maybe_ I spent a brief moment privately entertaining some thoughts about climbing him like a tree. The whole thing was honestly very intimidating.”

“Well, nothing wrong with a little clandestine eye contact with the hot dad in the after-school pickup line,” Julia muses. “Sounds like someone’s finally accomplishing his lifelong dream of living in a modern Jane Austen novel. Congrats, Q. I wish you a blissful semester’s worth of pining and furtive glances. Maybe your hands will brush as he passes you a pen to sign the field trip permission slip.”

“You’re so mean to me,” he says, with no real conviction. “You can’t bully me for not making a move, he was like thirty feet away and AJ was literally right there. Also, like, he could be married, for all I know. And even if he’s not, he’s super out of my league anyway.”

“I still think you should talk to him,” she says. “If you bump into him again, I mean. Best case, he’s single and into you and you two have some fun. Worst case scenario, you make a friend. Maybe your kids can hang out while the two of you talk parenting. And if he happens to double as eye candy, so what? Might be nice.”

“I think you’re maybe under the impression that I have a lot more free time than I actually do,” he says, “considering that I’m single parenting a child with ADHD while working freelance in a field that’s, like, super time consuming.” He knows it’s a weak retort, though. She has a point.

“Excuses, excuses,” she teases. “If the Dean of Brakebills can manage to do her job, plan her wedding, spend time with her girlfriend, publish her work on metacomposition in multiple journals, keep up with the Kardashians, and still have time to meddle in her best friend’s love life, then _you?_ Can get a guy’s number, my friend.”

“Oh, okay, so I’m not pulling my weight,” he jokes, checking his watch and calling Teddy over to start trying to wrangle his leash back on. “I see how it is. I’ll get right on that, Dean Wicker.”

“Looking forward to hearing the progress reports,” she says, and as Teddy leads him back through the gate, his phone beeps to let him know there’s another call incoming.

It’s AJ’s school.

“Shit,” he says. “Jules, the school is calling, sorry, I gotta-”

“Duty calls,” she says. “I get it. I’ll let you go deal with that, then. Talk more soon?”

“Yeah, no, of course,” he says. “Thanks, love you, bye.”

“You too, Q. Anytime.”

\---

**ELIOT, NOW. AUGUST. PORTLAND, OR.**

“Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Waugh,” the principal says, taking a seat at her desk and gesturing to one of the two upholstered armchairs across from it. “Especially on such short notice. We appreciate your flexibility.”

“Of course,” he says, taking a seat. “It’s no trouble. And there’s no need for formality, Ms. Fischer. Eliot is fine. You spoke with my daughter’s aunt over the phone, but I didn’t get any specifics from her, just that you wanted to meet. May I ask what happened, exactly?”

“Please, call me Katie,” she says. “I’ve spoken with Plum, your daughter’s teacher, and my understanding is that Violet and another student in her class got into a serious disagreement that turned rather physical.”

Eliot’s heart sinks, and he offers a queasy, apologetic half-smile, the universal expression for _sorry, my kid can be kind of a nightmare._

Katie continues. “No one is hurt, but we thought it might be best to keep the girls separated until I had the chance to meet with both parents, so that we could all work together in creating a plan for going forward. Your daughter’s class is out for recess right now, but Violet kindly volunteered to stay behind in the classroom with Miss Plum until you arrived. I’ve already let Plum know that you’re here, so she should be bringing Violet by momentarily. The other student involved, Ada, will be brought in from recess to join us as soon as her parent arrives. For the sake of transparency and everyone’s time, I think it might be best to discuss further details once everyone has arrived,” she says.

“That makes sense,” he says. “I appreciate that consideration. Ideally, I’d like to be able to attend a work meeting I have scheduled for noon in Arlington Heights, but this obviously takes precedent, and I’ll be glad to stay as long as I need to in order to resolve matters.”

“Noted,” Katie says with a smile. “I’ll do my best to have us all out of here by then. Plum will need to get back to the classroom as soon as recess ends, so she unfortunately won’t be joining us for this meeting, but she’s filled me in on what happened.”

“I know we agreed on waiting to discuss details,” he says, “but just in terms of preparing myself for how firm I’ll need to be with her on this, can I ask who started it?”

Katie’s eyes dart away from his, and she clears her throat softly. “Well, we don’t typically like to approach conflicts between students in terms of _who started it,_ so I’m not sure I can say-”

“With all due respect, ma’am,” he says gently, “we both know that’s bullshit. Someone always starts it, with kids. Was it my daughter?”

Katie laughs, leaning back in her chair. “You’re a straight shooter, then. I won’t lie, that’s refreshing to see in a parent.”

“Thank you, I try,” he says mildly. “I noticed that you dodged my question, just now.”

She sighs, flashing him a small, knowing smile. “You didn’t hear this from me, but yeah, Violet definitely started it.”

Eliot nods, because yeah, that tracks. There’s a soft knock at the door.

“Come in,” Katie calls. The door’s barely open before Violet is darting across the room and practically throwing herself into Eliot’s lap, a sure sign that she’s feeling legitimately shitty. He winces at the sharp twist of pain it sends through him, but he doesn’t make her move, he just sighs and wraps his arms around her in a hug, content to let her bury her face in his shoulder for a moment.

“Miss Plum,” he says, nodding his head in greeting at Violet’s teacher standing in the doorway. She’s a sweet enough woman, they had met a few times over the summer to hash out the finer points of Violet’s dyslexia accommodations. If Violet has to repeat a grade, he’s at least glad she doesn’t have to do it with the same teacher. “I apologize for all the hassle today, and I’m sure Violet will too, once she’s done hiding. Thank you for calling me as quickly as you did.”

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Plum replies. “And that’s a kind thought, Mr. Waugh, but I’m not really the one Violet needs to apologize to. I think she knows that, though. I’m afraid I have to get back to teaching now, but Katie can explain what happened. You have my email if you want to reach out with any questions. Enjoy the rest of your day.” She gives him an awkward smile and a little wave as she turns to leave.

“Hey, kid,” he says quietly, softly dislodging Violet from his shoulder and trying to meet her eyes. “That’s enough hiding, yeah? Time to face the music. What happened, baby?”

She pointedly refuses to make eye contact, which tells him she’s in one of her Moods, capital M. _Great,_ he thinks, steeling himself for the non-zero possibility that this might get ugly. She grudgingly climbs out of his lap and settles herself wordlessly in a child-sized plastic chair to his left, folding her arms across her chest and sighing, her gaze fixed defiantly on her shoes.

The door to the principal’s office opens again, and Eliot’s still watching Violet, trying to parse her body language and decide what sort of tone she’d be most receptive to at the moment, but he catches a frantic flurry of motion in his peripheral vision, an adult trying to coax their child into the room.

“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Coldwater,” Katie says, “if you and Ada could take a seat, that would be-”

From the doorway, Eliot hears a man’s voice, faltering nervously. “It’s, um, you don’t- Quentin, is fine, just Quentin, please, sorry, I’m so sorry, my daughter, just- one moment.”

There’s a brief, hushed exchange of words from the doorway, the familiar cadence of a pleading parent to their stubborn child, the vaguely-embarrassed whisper of _please cooperate_. Eliot hesitantly reaches out to brush a hand over one of Violet’s braids, but she swats his hand away in annoyance. So it’s gonna be like that, apparently. Eliot resigns himself to the knowledge that this is going to take a while. There’s no way he’s making it to the Library on time. As usual, Margo knows best.

“First of all, I’m sitting as far away from _her_ as I can,” says a small voice to Eliot’s right. She sounds dead-serious about it, and it elicits a bizarre combination of feelings in Eliot: instinctive defensiveness over his daughter, a surge of fury at this other child for talking shit about her, the nauseous dawning realization that Violet may have really and truly fucked up. Eliot keeps his eyes fixed on his daughter while he tries to compose himself, because the last thing he needs right now is for his telekinesis to start acting up. Violet rolls her eyes dramatically, angling her body further away from the girl’s voice. 

“AJ, hey, that’s not very-” says the man, right as Katie says “That’s fine, Ada, you can sit over by-”

The kid continues, interrupting them both. “Second of all, my _name_ is AJ, _not_ Ada. It’s short for Ada Josephine. You can’t just ignore half of my name.”

“Josephine is still technically your middle name, honey,” the girl’s father says, with a tired air of long-suffering patience. “I’m sure that’s how it’s listed on your paperwork, you don’t need to be mean about it, there’s no way for her to know you prefer to go by-”

“Well I don’t _want_ a middle name, I want two first names!” The girl sounds about three seconds away from a tantrum, and Eliot can’t help but feel a pang of smug satisfaction. Violet’s sulking might be a royal pain in the ass, but at least she’s past her throwing-tantrums-in-public phase.

Well. Mostly. That time at the Washington Square Cheesecake Factory doesn’t count, no matter _what_ Margo says.

Eliot finally turns to look at the girl and her father, right as the man ( _Quentin,_ he reminds himself) closes the door and turns to face the room, a startled flush of recognition flooding across his face as his wide eyes land on Eliot for the second time that day.

“Hey, um?” Quentin says softly, confused and twitchy.

Eliot has four thoughts, in rapid-fire succession: firstly _Hey yourself, baby._ Secondly _God, how is he even more delicious up close?_ And thirdly, _You couldn’t have picked_ anyone else’s _kid to bully, Vi, really? Thanks a lot._

His fourth thought is the closest to socially acceptable, so it tumbles out of his mouth without his permission, all long, incredulous vowels.

_“Quentin Coldwater?”_

\---

“She told me I was stupid for liking Harry Potter,” Violet exclaims, looking to Eliot in a clear request for backup. “She said Harry Potter was _stupid_ and for babies. She colored all over my book.” Eliot winces internally. Harry Potter is the only series Violet’s been able to make consistent progress in, and she’s understably protective of it.

“No, what I _said_ was that the only people who like Harry Potter are people who’ve _never read any other books,_ ” AJ bites back. “And I colored all over it because I thought it might inspire her to read a different story that’s actually good. But she’s right. They’re stupid books. They’re really overrated and people who read them are basic.”

“I know, AJ, but that’s not- something we just _say,_ ” Quentin whispers. “Other people are... allowed. To like Harry Potter.” He sounds mildly disgusted at the words coming out of his own mouth, like he’s betraying the _principles_ of his own personal nerdhood, and Eliot is- stupidly charmed by it. “And we don’t color on books, ever, you know that.”

“In her defense, Vi,” Eliot says, “she probably wouldn’t have said that in the first place if you hadn’t stolen her stuffed dragon and hid it in your desk.”

“I wouldn’t have said it,” AJ confirms, her jaw set in defiance. Something about the expression makes her look less like her father, and Eliot wonders if it’s something she gets from her mother. She continues, lowering her voice to a snide murmur. “I would have still _thought_ it, though. And I would have colored on your book regardless, no matter what Papa says. He’s right that it’s not good to color on books, but the Harry Potter books shouldn’t even count, because they suck and the author isn’t even woke.”

“Jesus Christ, AJ,” Quentin says, sounding exhausted and at his wits’ end as he scrubs a hand down his face. She just shrugs, fixing him with a stubborn glare of _what, it’s true!_

“Be that as it may,” Eliot grits through his teeth, drawing on every ounce of patience he’s collected over his nearly-nine years of fatherhood and every shred of diplomacy he’s cultivated across five painstaking years as Margo’s emissary. “Reading and books are a bit of a sensitive subject for Violet.” Violet shoots him an absolutely poisonous glance, and he knows he’s going to be hearing about this from her later, but he continues, because this conversation isn’t going to get anywhere without some pertinent, albeit limited, context. “That doesn’t mean it was okay for her to tear up your drawing and ruin it, AJ, but I’m telling you this because it might help you understand why what you said about Harry Potter was so hurtful for her to hear, and why she was so upset about you coloring in her book.”

“God, dad,” Violet groans. “Can you not?”

AJ’s face twists in confusion, and Quentin’s brow furrows to match. “What do you mean, sensitive subject?” AJ says. “Why would books be a sensitive subject?”

Violet’s grip on Eliot’s hand tightens in warning, and he squeezes back reassuringly. “That’s incredibly personal, and it’s up to her to decide if that’s something she wants to discuss. It’s not for me to say. What I can tell you, though, is that the Harry Potter books mean a lot to her, and she probably took you insulting them pretty personally. Which isn’t an _excuse,_ ” he adds quickly, looking to Katie, “but it’s something we’re working on.”

AJ wrinkles her nose in thought for a moment before shrugging. “I guess that part makes sense. If somebody said Percy Jackson sucked, I would be really really mad,” she says matter-of-factly, picking at a fleck of mud on her hideous rainbow Crocs. “But I still don’t forgive her for hiding Falkor. Or ruining my drawing. And I never will, because it was mean, and I hate mean people.”

“Oh my _god,_ ” Violet says. “I gave your stupid dragon back when you started crying! And _you_ colored all over my copy of Prisoner of Azkaban! I didn’t _do_ anything to your dragon, it was just in my desk. And the only reason I even took it in the first place was because you wouldn’t share the purple crayon and you were being stupid.”

“I’d like you to apologize to my daughter _right now_ for calling her stupid,” Quentin says quietly, an understated but uncompromising fury in his polite tone. It’s so firm and adamant and surefooted, so at odds with the rest of his fussy, nervy demeanor, that it immediately demands the attention of everyone in the room.

“I’m sorry AJ,” Violet says sheepishly, still sulking a bit, but ducking her head in appropriately chastised shame.

“Thank you, Violet,” he says. “Now. Falkor is very important to AJ, just like Harry Potter is very important to you. I’m sorry she drew on your book, that’s not fair. I would be pretty upset if someone drew on one of my books, and I will talk to her about that. She’s not getting off the hook here, because she’s responsible for her actions too. But Falkor was a birthday gift from AJ’s aunt on the day she was born, and she’s had it for seven years. I would go so far as to say it’s probably her most prized possession. We ask that you respect that.”

 _God,_ Eliot thinks. He’s _good_ at this. It’s a bit of an unnerving reminder of exactly how much his life has changed, for him to apparently find _competent parenting_ a turn-on now, of all things.

“Well I didn’t _know_ that,” Violet says, cross and flippant. “But fine, whatever, sorry I took your weird ugly dragon.”

“Hey,” AJ says, “I _like_ that he’s weird and ugly! It’s what makes him special.”

“You _would_ think that,” Violet deadpans, and it’s _so insidiously bitchy_ , and not even in the good way, that Eliot is in genuine shock for a second. AJ, bless her heart and thank the stars, is just kind of blinking at Violet in vague confusion, like the barb went right over her head, which is- for the best, really.

Quentin, on the other hand, is visibly taken aback, and looks- honest to god _hurt,_ and the naked honesty on his ridiculously expressive face is enough to send Eliot hurtling back to his senses.

 _“Violet Imogen Waugh,”_ he snaps, voice low and serious, and when she whips around to look at him, her eyes are wide and startled, because he’s never. He doesn’t. Talk to her like that, _ever,_ if he can help it. He closes his eyes for a moment, giving her hand a soft squeeze of reassurance to ground them both and hold back the worst of the nausea clawing its way up his throat as he pictures his therapist sternly telling him that _he is not his father._

He clears his throat quietly, opening his eyes to look at her when he feels like he’s on solid ground again. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Quentin watching him, curious and strangely perceptive in a way that makes Eliot feel a little too seen.

When he speaks, he keeps his voice clear, cool, and level. “I want you to think about what you said just now, Violet, and whether it was fair. I am going to ask you a question, and I’d like you to answer it honestly. Did I raise you to be cruel?”

“No,” she whispers, her voice wobbling a little as her eyes brim with tears, and _fuck_ if kids aren’t good at making you feel like absolute shit sometimes. “You didn’t, Daddy.”

“I didn’t think so,” he says, calm calm _calm,_ steady, _calm._ “I’m glad we’re on the same page. We’re going to talk about this some more later, once you’re home from school. I’m sure AJ and her father have similar plans for their evening.” He glances over at Quentin, who’s watching Eliot’s personal hell unfold with a frankly startling amount of fond sympathy written on his face.

 _Thank you,_ he mouths, flashing a sad little smile framed by one heartstoppingly lovely dimple and Eliot is- that doesn’t. Compute? Eliot’s currently scolding his daughter for being heartlessly unkind to Quentin’s child, what could he _possibly_ be thanking him for? Not letting Violet get away with such unchecked callousness? If that’s the case, if he’s honest to God _thanking_ Eliot for basic human fucking decency, well. That certainly says a lot about the kind of treatment that AJ, and perhaps her father, too, come to think of it, have been subjected to in the past.

Eliot dismisses the knowledge that he still catches himself inwardly thanking perfect strangers for their bare-minimum kindness with alarming regularity as _irrelevant,_ thank you very much. He turns back to Violet.

“Now, is there anything you’d like to say, or can I ask you to sit quietly and use this time to listen and reflect on your actions?”

“Can I tell her I’m sorry?” Violet squeaks out, sniffling a little and breaking his heart, but- he knows his daughter, and some part of him blooms with vague hope that she might yet come out of this with a friend.

“That depends, sweetheart,” he says. “Have you thought about it enough to really mean it, and offer her the fullest apology you can?”

She sighs, shakes her head. “No, not yet,” she admits. “I’m still mad at her, and I don’t want to apologize until I’m done being mad.”

“That’s...very honest of you, Violet,” Quentin says. “AJ, do you feel like you need an apology now, or would you be okay with waiting until she’s ready?”

“I don’t wanna hear it until it actually means something,” AJ says, which, despite the inflammatory phrasing, is remarkably solid logic for a seven year old, emotionally speaking. “Plus I’m not done being mad yet, either. I guess I can apologize to her too when I’m less mad. But only if her apology is good enough.”

“That, um. Might be as far as we’re going to get, today,” Quentin says, with a wry smile. “I think I can live with us leaving things there, for right now, at least. What are your thoughts, Eliot?”

“That might be for the best, yes,” Eliot agrees, and he finds himself smiling a little too at the general absurdity of the entire situation. His gaze flits over the clock briefly- 11:15, he might still be able to make it there on time if traffic isn’t too bad, but if he cuts it any closer, he might have to deal with the logistical jumping jacks of opening a portal from inside his car to the Library parking lot-

Katie clears her throat.

“Well,” she says, awkwardly. “That was. Oddly productive, in a sense?”

The atmosphere slowly fills with a dawning sense of vague horror as four of the room’s occupants simultaneously realize that they have spent the past half hour doing an absolutely stellar job of excluding the fifth occupant from the conversation completely.

Quentin says nothing in the awkward space that follows. Eliot follows suit.

“What I’d really like to get at, though, the thing I mentioned earlier that we somehow haven’t even _touched_ on, is the physical fight between you girls that followed the argument. That’s the part that we were concerned about, really.”

“Oh, _that?_ ” Quentin says, and it’s so unexpected that Eliot barks out a laugh without even meaning to. 

Katie glares at him for his lapse in social decorum, and Quentin looks at him too, flustered and gesturing with his hands as he stammers out a clarification. 

“I just mean that, like, obviously hitting at school is bad, but I think everyone here knows that, and it’s like, I mean, you said no one got hurt? So it can’t have been, like, all that bad, really, and I was just thinking that it might be more efficient to really, um, dig into the root cause? Of the argument, or whatever, so that something like this doesn’t-”

“Breathe, Quentin,” Eliot says, unable to scrub all the amusement from his voice. “I get what you mean. And just for the record,” he says, turning to Katie, “I agree with him completely.”

Katie blinks. “Eliot, Quentin, while I... can appreciate your reasoning, here, it’s my responsibility as an administrator to remind you that we have a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to-”

“Oh, no, it was dumb,” AJ interrupts, and they all turn to look at her. “Fighting, I mean. I know you can’t fight other kids at school, I just got super mad. I’m not sorry about the other stuff yet, Violet, but I’m sorry about that part. The hitting, I mean. It won’t happen again, as long as nobody touches Falkor.”

“...Okay,” Katie says, clearly taken aback. “It sounds like you understand that this can’t happen again, AJ. In that case, Quentin, I think it might be a good idea to perhaps talk to your daughter about potentially leaving the dragon at home, so as to prevent-”

“Yep,” Quentin says with a thin smile. “I’ll, uh. I’ll talk to her.”

“That would be great, thank you,” Katie says. She turns to face Eliot and his daughter. “Violet, what about you?”

Violet looks up at Eliot. “Can I talk now?” she whispers.

Eliot laughs softly, reaching out to tug gently on one of her braids. “Go ahead, kiddo, I’m not the boss of you.”

“You literally are, but okay,” she says, not sounding all that mad about it. “And yeah, I agree with AJ. Only on this, though, not on anything else. I’m still really mad at her, for the record. But she’s right, the fighting was dumb. I always think it’s really stupid when boys fight each other at school, because boys are the worst, so I don’t want to act like them, no matter how angry I am. Plus, hitting is just wrong and bad unless it’s in self defense, but I definitely hit her first, so that’s my bad. Sorry, AJ. I know I’ll get kicked out if I do it again.”

“Well, as long as we’re in agreement, then,” Katie says, sounding utterly perplexed and exhausted. “No more fighting between you girls. Does that sound good?”

“I never said I wouldn’t fight her,” AJ says stubbornly. “I said I wouldn’t _hit_ her. I can’t promise that I won’t fight her if she starts being mean again, but I promise to only do it with words next time.”

Quentin looks mortified, Katie looks like she needs a stiff drink and a pay raise, but Violet? Violet is smiling at AJ like she either hung the moon or nuked it, Eliot can’t tell. Maybe both. Probably both.

“We can be enemies,” she suggests, with a devilish little smile. “I promise to leave Falkor alone, and we can be enemies who don’t punch each other. I’m good with that.”

“I’ve never had an enemy before,” AJ says, before any of the adults in the room can derail the train of chaos currently leaving the station. “It sounds fun. I’m in.”

Quentin groans, Eliot shoots him a sympathetic glance, the girls pinky-promise, and with a rushed round of goodbyes and hurried confirmation that AJ and Violet both agree to _at least_ leave the fisticuffs behind them, Katie ushers them all out of her office as quickly as she can.

Eliot and Quentin wordlessly walk their daughters back to Plum’s classroom, and aside from exchanging a few pointed and suspicious sidelong glances, the girls head back to class without much fuss.

“So. That was, um. Interesting,” Quentin says, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other trying to wrangle a few stubborn strands of hair that managed to escape his bun.

“To say the least,” Eliot says gamely, offering him a smile.

There’s a brief awkward silence, and then Quentin says, all in a breathless rush, “I don’t, um, I don’t know if this is an okay thing to say, or if it’s just gonna be like, crossing a line and super awkward, but I feel like I should say something, so. For what it’s worth, I think you did good, back there. With Violet, I mean. Not that you need, like, my approval on your parenting, or anything like that, and not that I can tell anything from one thirty-minute conversation, really, but you just looked kind of out of your element, for a second there? And we’ve all been there, and it sucks, and so I guess I kind of just wanted to say that, um. I think you were really good with her, Eliot. In case you needed to hear that today, or something.” Quentin meets his eyes, and the stubborn conviction in his gaze gives weight to his words, tells Eliot that he really, truly means them.

Eliot has never been more grateful to be running late for a meeting in his life. He’s not proud, but he knows that if he lets this conversation go on even a second longer, he _will_ pass out.

“God,” he says, eloquently and not at all choked up. Nope. Not even a little bit. “I, um. Thank you? That’s. Very kind of you, Quentin, I don’t. Thank you.”

Quentin just ducks his head and shrugs a little, looking away. “Of course, it’s no trouble at all. No worries. Just thought I should say it.”

Eliot nods, still feeling remarkably off-balance. There’s another awkward silence, and he finally puts it out of its misery. “Listen, Quentin, it was wonderful meeting you. Shame it wasn’t under better circumstances. Hopefully my daughter leaves yours alone, I’ll do my best to get her off the warpath, and again, I apologize for her behavior today. I’d love to stay and chat, but unfortunately I have a work meeting I’m going to be late for, so I should probably-”

“Yeah, no, of course, don’t let me keep you,” Quentin says. “It was nice meeting you too, Eliot. It’s all good, honestly, I’ll talk to AJ, but as far as I’m concerned, it seems like they were both pretty at fault here, so. Apologies from us too. I guess I’ll see you around, probably? For pickup and stuff, I mean.”

“It would certainly appear that way,” Eliot says, with a grin. “See you around, then, Coldwater.”

Quentin smiles back at him, full-on, and _Jesus Christ,_ Eliot thinks wildly. If Margo doesn’t kill him, those dimples will.

“Bye, Eliot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading!! i hope you enjoyed this chapter, i should have chapter 5 up soon, featuring some more hedge witch shenanigans as well as a real conversation (finally) between our boys. it was so fun finally getting to write some margo & eliot banter with this chapter, i’ve been really looking forward to it. margo is a big part of why this chapter ended up being so damn long- turns out she’s super fun to write, and i didn’t know how to stop. also: quentin's views on harry potter aren't necessarily mine, i just find the idea of him being enough of a persnickety bitch hipster nerd to irrationally loathe harry potter, like, absurdly fucking funny. as always, comments and kudos (but especially comments) mean the world!


	5. you gave up being good when you declared a state of war

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all, this is inexcusably long, i’m so sorry. second of all, it’s been literal decades since i posted? again, so sorry!! i started back at work recently and everything’s been really hectic and i thought i might have covid for a bit (we’re good! i’m fine! but they are not kidding when they say the test swab hurts like a bitch!) so anyway. here’s chapter five, better late than never! featuring margo POV, an explanation as to what happened to el, & a ridiculously self-indulgent amount of queliot banter bc i can’t be stopped. warning for verbal retelling/recollection of some pretty graphic and serious and traumatic gore/injury of a magical nature, from where they’re about to leave the library on through the end of margo’s POV. title for this one comes from kill v maim by grimes bc it reminds me of margo :/

**MARGO, NOW. AUGUST. PORTLAND, OR.**

“Listen, blondie,” Margo tells the Librarian, interrupting Fray mid-sentence and silencing her with a wave of her hand. Little Intern Annie’s been trying her best, poor thing, but she still has so far to go before she’s anywhere close to the fucking _realm_ of being on Eliot’s level, it’s honestly kind of embarrassing.

Granted, that’s not _entirely_ Fray’s fault, because no one will ever be on Eliot’s level. 

Still. Excusing El from duty had been the right move, but she misses him. She’d been looking forward to letting him do all the heavy lifting for her today. He knows diplomacy gives her hives. He’s good like that.

The Goldilocks bitch in question _(Western Region Head Librarian Quinn, PhD)_ scoffs in disbelief. “Wow, _blondie,_ that’s incredibly original, thank you.”

Margo shrugs. “Don’t worry, kitten, I’ll come up with something more scathing as soon as you decide to start being interesting.”

The Librarian sighs, setting her jaw in irritation. She’d probably be pretty cute, Margo muses, if she got the stick out of her ass. Not as cute as Fen, though, and nowhere near as sweet. Margo’s plenty busy with her own eager little handful as is.

Fray clears her throat. “My king, was I adequately representing our interests in this matter, or is there another approach you’d rather I take?”

“Ugh, ignore her,” Margo says, smiling sweetly at the woman across the desk, all teeth. “It’s take your kid to work day. Interns, am I right?” She turns to Fray. “You tried, sweetie, but the gloves had to come off sometime if we were gonna get anywhere. I’ll put an extra sticker on your star chart for effort though.”

Fray’s eyes glint in annoyance, but she nods and keeps her mouth shut, clearly resigning herself to sit this one out. She’s no Eliot, but she’s a damn fine illusionist and a crafty little cunt when she wants to be, and Margo can admire that in a witch. More than that, she’s loyal in spades, and that’s hard to come by. She hasn’t told anyone yet, but Margo’s got her eyes set on lieutenant for Fray, someday. She’d be good at it.

“I would argue that she did a perfectly serviceable job of conveying your coven’s concerns. Rather thoroughly and clearly too, might I add,” Dr. Quinn says tersely, “so unless there’s anything else you’d like to point out, I believe I have an understanding of your terms. If you’re ready, I’d like to begin the formal negotiation process.”

Margo barks a laugh, leaning back in her chair. She kicks her feet up on the corner of the desk, partially to project an aura of assertiveness, partially to admire the line of her own ankles in these heels, but mostly just to watch the Librarian wrinkle her nose in distaste. Bitch has a desk straight out of a Capricorn finance major’s wet dream and Margo would still bet she’s never even fucked on it. Shame.

“Your whole Rory Gilmore act is cute and all, but I’m getting bored, and I’ve always been more of a Paris, so let’s get one thing straight.” Dr. Quinn’s eyebrows pinch in confusion, as if to say _what’s wrong with Rory Gilmore? I like Rory Gilmore!_ Adorable. 

Margo continues. “We’re both boss bitches, so there’s no need to waste each other’s time, yeah? If you came here thinking I was gonna cooperate or compromise, you’ve got another thing coming, because mama doesn’t play good cop, and I’ve always hated group projects. I pay other people to do that shit for me, but my Emissary is taking a personal day, so you’re shit out of luck. I. Don’t. Negotiate.”

“My king might not negotiate, but I do,” says a familiar rich voice from behind her. “Emissary Waugh, ma’am. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Apologies for running so late, I got tied up in a family emergency.”

Margo grins up at Eliot as he touches a hand to her shoulder briefly, a grounding gesture that would pass for a show of reverent deference to the casual observer, even as Margo recognizes it as his way of saying _Easy, girl, claws in._ He’s the only bitch alive who can get away with that shit and keep both his hands, and he knows it. He’s her emissary for a reason.

Eliot lets his hand linger a second before offering it to the Librarian in a handshake. She accepts it, and he flashes her a dazzling smile as compensation for her troubles. 

He’s good at what he does, the very picture of charm offensive, putting Dr. Quinn on her back foot while putting his best one forward in the same breath. Margo has, like, _zero_ fucking patience for diplomatic horseshit even when she outsources it to someone else, but getting the chance to watch her best friend in his element makes the whole process substantially less nauseating. 

Fray wordlessly stands and takes an obedient step back, freeing up her seat without even being asked. She stands just behind it, a show of quiet force with her spine straight and her expression schooled in careful neutrality, arms behind her back as she awaits further orders. _Good soldier._ Margo allows herself a private rush of glowing pride as Eliot takes Fray’s place with a nod of gratitude and murmured thanks.

“An apology isn’t necessary,” the Librarian says with a polite smile, her voice clipped and cool. “Glad you could make it. I’m Dr. Quinn, Head Librarian of the Western Region. Ms. Fray has expressed your organization’s position and concerns, and I was about to begin negotiations with Ms. Hanson when you-”

Oh _hell_ no.

Fray and Eliot wince in unison, but it’s Fray who speaks up first.

“It’s _King_ Hanson,” she corrects, voice firm.

Eliot shoots her a firm glance, silently admonishing her for interrupting and speaking out of turn. Fray’s eyes widen dramatically, as if to say _What? It was bugging me, Jesus,_ but she obediently lowers her gaze anyway.

“She should have raised her hand first, but she’s right,” Margo says lightly, examining her nails. “You can call me miss again if you want, though. Feel free to fuck around and find out, I won’t stop you. Whether or not you walk away from this meeting with all your teeth intact is your business, not mine.”

“What King Hanson _means_ to say, Dr. Quinn,” Eliot says quickly, placating with a thin and vaguely sheepish smile, “is that her title is hard-won, and born through years of hard work and countless sacrifices. Much like yours, I’d imagine. She would appreciate your courtesy in using her title, just as we’ve been using yours.”

“Yeah, okay, sure,” Margo agrees gamely. “What he said.”

“ _With all due respect,_ ” Dr. Quinn snaps, her voice low. “King Hanson. Emissary Waugh. _I_ would appreciate _your_ courtesy in moving beyond these pointless histrionics. My time is very limited. I evidently failed to anticipate the full extent of whatever- persecution complexes, for lack of a better word, that your coven seems to be laboring under delusions of.”

“ _Persecution complex?_ Tell that to the Salem Witch Trials,” Fray mutters under her breath, and Margo bites back a smile. _Get her ass, Fray._

“I sincerely apologize for whatever role my team and I may have played in leading you to such misjudged conclusions,” Dr. Quinn continues, “but I have chosen to open my office and my schedule to you and your demands, so if you would allow me the honor of _speaking for five goddamn minutes_ without interruption, you might begin to understand that I’m sympathetic to your cause. To the degree, might I add, that your- _incredibly_ childish threats and _wildly_ unprofessional posturing haven’t tarnished my willingness to help.”

Eliot opens his mouth to try and smooth things over, but he falls silent at the glare Dr. Quinn levels his way. “The Library has substantial resources, and I am in a position to offer them, provided that you plan to use them to aid in matters of genuine consequence. Life or death scenarios, for example, as opposed to petty turf wars. In exchange, I have demands of my own that will need to be met. Would you like to hear them, or would you prefer to spend the rest of this meeting continuing to underestimate me, my patience, and my goodwill?”

“Damn, baby. Didn’t know you had it in you,” Margo says blithely, mostly just to say something, but she barely hears herself over the sound of her own blood rushing in her ears. _Life or death scenarios, for example._ She’d joked with Eliot earlier about going full Jennifer Check. She hadn’t planned on edging this close to it, hadn’t planned on seeing red, on itching to draw blood. Feeling it in her _teeth._

She wasn’t expecting this meeting to be pleasant, but she hadn’t accounted for the possibility of being hit in her metaphorical Achilles _fucking_ heel, that one tender spot that her hard glossy armor still can’t quite seem to cover, not yet, not even after all these years.

She’ll sit this one out for now. Really mull over what she’s going to say when she has the last word. Let El handle it until then. Dr. Quinn is _lucky_ that he managed to make it today. Because if he hadn’t- well. 

It’s been a while since Margo got her axes wet. They’re starting to miss the taste of iron, of salt.

Eliot, for his part, merely blinks twice in surprise before gathering his composure and bouncing back. He’s always been resilient, her boy. 

“That’s, um,” he starts. “Forgive me for saying so, Dr. Quinn, but that’s- surprising, to say the least. As I gather you’ve come to understand, we’d been working under the assumption that the Library wasn’t interested in establishing any sort of alliance with hedges in the area. Our guiding principles seemed somewhat... conflicting, you could say?”

Dr. Quinn winces a bit, nodding as if to concede the point. “You could certainly say that, yes. Historically, the Library has taken a more... conservative approach. Safeguarding magical knowledge from potentially falling into the wrong hands by restricting it, controlling its flow, monitoring its distribution and circulation. There’s been a recent pendulum shift of sorts, however, among those of us newer to the organization, myself included.”

“What do you mean?” Eliot asks.

“There’s a growing sense of admiration amongst Librarians for the resourceful ways in which covens foster the accessibility and depoliticization of magical knowledge and information. Since stepping into the role of Western Region Head Librarian last year, I’ve tried to work with the building momentum and the shifting tides to reform and revise our policies where I can. Progress has come more slowly than I’d like, though.”

“Rest assured, that particular feeling is decidedly mutual,” Eliot quips smoothly, and Margo grins. She loves it when he gets bitchy.

“I understand that the Library has been less than benevolent towards hedgewitches in the past,” Dr. Quinn says gingerly. “That you’ve been forced to self-regulate within your communities by establishing the Accords. I haven’t been able to find any real specifics on them in my research, beyond the fact of their existence, and the rumor that your coven, under King Hanson’s leadership, was the driving force behind the agreement. Your storied involvement in the Accords played a large part in my decision to reach out to Twin Sorrows of the Pearl first, before any other coven, as it suggests you understand the severity of the consequences that can stem from the accessibility of knowledge, or the lack thereof.”

 _The severity of the consequences._ Margo’s gonna fucking kill her. The surprise of her knowing about the Accords barely even registers, because, again. Margo’s gonna fucking kill her.

The Librarian continues. “As an organization, we have had, and still do have, some concerns about the regulation of magic, and the potential for knowledge to be wielded as a weapon. I’m sure hedges have their own host of similar reservations about us, in the inverse sense. Ideally, though, I’d love to partner with you, so that we may attempt to bridge that gap moving forward.”

“That’s kind and noble of you to offer,” Eliot says, considerate, careful. “And certainly more generous, welcoming, and fair than we had hoped for. Your knowledge of the Accords is rather appreciated as well. But let me ask- and I mean no disrespect by this, but- to what degree would you say your mindset is shared among your colleagues, exactly?”

Dr. Quinn sighs. “If you’re asking me how much support I have behind me when it comes to this particular project, then I’ll be honest, I’m- leading the charge here, you could say. But I find myself in a position of substantial influence, and I want to help.”

“Fair enough,” Eliot says. “Change has to start somewhere, after all. I certainly appreciate your initiative in this, and I’m sure the rest of the coven would as well. I take it full walk-in access to all areas might not be on the table just yet?”

Fuck. He can’t possibly be cocking out on her already, can he? _I hope you’re playing the long game here, Waugh,_ she thinks. If she has to sit here and listen to this bitch talk about _life or death scenarios_ and _the severity of consequences_ like she’s discussing stock prices or the fucking weather, he had better get something out of it.

Dr. Quinn nods, frowning apologetically. “Essentially. I’m afraid that I don’t yet have the support needed to facilitate that, at least not with the degree of freedom that I’d like to offer you. What I _can_ offer you is a library card granting supervised walk-in access to non-restricted areas during regular business hours, for a single appointed delegate of your choice, the same as we currently offer to any classically trained magician.”

Margo scoffs. She’s gotta be fucking kidding. That’s _nothing,_ that’s less than nothing, that’s a fucking _insult._ If she wanted the kind of access that the Library gives classically trained magicians, she’d hire-threaten-bribe a classically trained magician to fetch whatever book they needed, wipe their memory as soon as they handed it over, and send them on their merry fucking way. 

If worst came to worst, she could always slap an illusion charm on a goddamn business card, (one of Eliot’s maybe, or hell, her fucking _waxing lady’s,_ ) bat her eyelashes, and swipe as much shit as she could carry. Nothing a bored adolescence in Calabasas hadn’t prepared her for. She’s armed with a whole high school’s worth of summers spent at Nordstrom Rack, lifting anything and everything she could hide beneath her Chinchilla fur coat. These days, it’s not about whether or not she can _take_ what she wants. She can _always_ take what she wants. She always _has._

It’s about being respected enough to not _have_ to take it, these days. Being feared enough that they’ll offer it to her freely. She’s not sure the two are the same, exactly, but. Needs must.

“I’m not sure that’s going to work for us,” Eliot starts, delicate despite the velvet edge of frustration in his voice, but Dr. Quinn cuts him off.

“If you would let me _finish,_ ” she says, and he sits back in his chair, palms held up in mock surrender. 

She continues. “That’s all I’m able to currently offer you _on behalf of the Library._ ” She flashes her eyes at them meaningfully, placing a light emphasis on her words, almost casually enough to miss it completely, and- wait, what? 

“Unfortunately, _we_ aren’t able to offer you more at this time. In a perfect world, _I_ would love to offer you the level of access we give to senior members. Head Librarians, for example. The Library _trusts_ Head Librarians to not abuse our privileges, and we are under strict _agreement_ to use any and all information obtained from Library records for ethical purposes only. Furthering accessibility in the interest of encouraging safer spellcasting would be permitted, for example.”

 _Would it now?_ Margo thinks. _Interesting._

“Library information is _not,_ however, to be weaponized against others, or used to violent ends, such as enacting vendettas, performing battle magic, or committing crimes resulting in physical, mental, emotional, material, financial, or magical harm to individual persons. Exceptions are made, obviously, for circumstances wherein such use constitutes self-defense. The Library does not classify companies, corporations, governing or regulatory bodies both magical and legal, or those with net worth exceeding half a billion U.S. dollars as individual persons, which is of course _completely unrelated_ to the discussion at hand. Just an interesting fact, is all.”

Her voice is offhand, conversational. Where is she going with this? She can’t be doing what Margo thinks she’s doing. Maybe she is. 

Margo’s still gonna kill her, though.

“We take this oath, as Head Librarians. There’s a Word as Bond involved, one whose circumstances are engineered to gauge _intent_ above all else. In exchange, our Library cards grant us twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five walk-in access to all areas, restricted and unrestricted. Unsupervised, off the record. On the honor system. We take full responsibility for any books or materials that are lost, damaged, or stolen, so we are able to take books _off the premises,_ provided they are returned in a reasonably timely manner. Essentially speaking, we have carte blanche, provided our motives are to gain understanding through the study of Library resources. Or, hypothetically, to further understanding by _distributing_ Library material to others.”

She’s totally doing what Margo thinks she’s doing. Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and Mary’s unfilled NuvaRing prescription. _Christ._ Maybe the bitch _has_ fucked on her desk. Margo’s starting to get the sense that she’s been underestimating Dr. Lawful Neutral here in more ways than one. Margo might not kill her after all, but there’s still no way in hell she’s gonna let her have the last word.

“Sounds like they made you a pretty good deal,” Eliot says simply. His tone is casual in spades, but his eyes are fucking _sparkling._

“Indeed,” Dr. Quinn says, offering them a smile. For the briefest second, there’s this absolutely _wicked_ glimmer behind her eyes, there and then gone. Margo’s still fucking simmering with fury, but it’s enough to thrill her blood for a moment, make her feel warm from her throat to her knees. She makes a mental note to ask Fen if they can roleplay hate sex again sometime.

“It’s everything I could ask for,” Dr. Quinn continues mildly. “Like I said. In a perfect world, it’s what I would offer you. But I’m afraid my hands are tied on this matter, as I’m sure you can understand.”

“Of course,” Eliot says. “It’s touching to hear the level of sympathy you feel for hedges on an _individual_ level. Obviously, though, _the Library_ isn’t in any position to extend that degree of freedom to outsiders. They trust the Head Librarians with it in _exchange_ for the contributions you’re willing to provide to the _organization as a whole,_ similar to the way the Library is willing to offer _standard-level access_ to our single appointed delegate in exchange for our own _contributions._ Am I understanding correctly?”

Fuck, he’s good at this. He’s matching her tone effortlessly, clarifying even as he pushes further, following her footprints but still pressing the issue every step of the way.

Dr. Quinn looks simultaneously relieved at how quickly he picked up on her trick, and amused at how readily he embraced using it himself. “You’re understanding perfectly, Emissary Waugh. While _I_ would love to offer you a blank check in exchange for meeting a short list of demands, the _Library_ is only prepared to offer you standard-level access, as we previously discussed. I understand it’s not exactly what you came here for, but is this compromise an agreement you would be amenable to?”

“It _is_ a little disappointing, I’ll admit,” Eliot says, allowing just the faintest edge of theatrical drama to creep into his voice, and Margo has to suppress the urge to snicker because _holy shit,_ he’s clearly having the time of his life selling the performance like this, he’s such a fucking _nerd._ “But it’s a start. Provided your demands are reasonable, it’s a deal we’d be happy to take.”

“Excellent,” Dr. Quinn says. “I’ve outlined six, in order of increasing importance-”

\---

“Till death do us part or whatever,” Margo quips, pressing her bloody palm to one corner of the sigil. The piece of paper glows faintly as the Word as Bond takes effect. “You should’ve asked for a prenup, though.” 

Neither Eliot nor little miss bleach ‘n tone dignify her with a response, which like, fuck, fine, _whatever._ She heals herself up with a simple tut, wordlessly seals the matching wound on Eliot’s palm with another. The sight of his blood in _any_ context still makes her sorta queasy. He flashes her a soft smile in thanks. 

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Quinn,” he says, turning back to the Librarian and offering her a parting handshake. “Thank you for your time. I imagine we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, now that we’ve partnered on this. We’ll be sure to contact you soon with details on who we’ve appointed as our access delegate so that you can go ahead and get their Library card set up.”

“Likewise,” she says. “I’ll be reaching out soon with more information on how you can start documenting your own body of knowledge for submission into Library records. One of the oral historians from our culture and history preservation team should give you a call soon as well, to conduct a few interviews concerning your lived experiences as hedges, like we discussed. And our curator will drop by at some point to discuss which artifacts, if any, you’d be willing to loan us on retainer for display purposes.”

They exchange a few more rounds of polite back-and-forth as Fray gathers up the paperwork. Eliot stands and grabs his cane, Dr. Quinn steps out from behind her desk to walk them out. 

They’re both clearly very proud of themselves for this fucking shining example of diplomacy in action or whatever, bonding over their newfound common ground, nevermind the fact that neither of them actually had to work all that hard to get there. It’s all, like, super fucking touching and everything, except.

Except.

Margo’s the last to stand, and she clears her throat. “Not that this wasn’t great and all,” she starts, “But there’s one last thing I’m gonna need us to circle back to.”

Her words must have their intended effect, because everyone freezes.

“Bambi,” Eliot murmurs, barely even a whisper. Warning her off the warpath. _It’s okay,_ his eyes say. _I’m okay. We got what we came for. Let it go._

Like hell is she letting this go.

“The thing is,” Margo says sweetly, “you brought up the Accords, Dr. Quinn. So I just wanted to touch on that, for a hot sec. Won’t take long at all, I promise.” She watches the color drain from El’s face. Good. It happened. She’s not going to be quiet about it. He shouldn’t have to hear this, though, so she meets his eyes, communicates _El, honey, you’re free to go_ with her own.

He shakes his head, sets his jaw, grips his cane tighter, stubborn as always. _I’ll be fine,_ it says. _I’m not leaving you._ Dumbass. His choice, though, and she’s not about to disrespect that. This is his story, and it’s his right to hear it told.

“I,” Dr. Quinn says, blinking in confusion. “Yes, of course, I can spare a moment. Was I wrong about your role in creating them? If so, I apologize, my sources may not have been entirely-”

“Oh, no, you were right,” Margo says, cutting her off. “The Accords were my idea. Now I know you’re probably thinking, gee, you don’t really seem like the type of bitch to solve problems by creating the hedgewitch equivalent of the United fucking Nations. Right again, princess. The UN was a cute idea and all, but it’s completely fucking toothless, and besides, diplomacy is way the fuck below my pay grade. But someone has to do it, and it’s a job for a tough bitch, so it had to be me.”

She pauses, takes a deep breath. “See, normally that’s something my Emissary would take point on, but unfortunately he was a little busy fighting for his fucking life from a hospital bed while his little girl sat there and prayed to gods whose names she couldn’t even pronounce yet that her daddy would wake up again.”

“I don’t-” Dr. Quinn starts, and Margo holds up a hand to silence her. 

“You don’t,” she agrees easily, not even sure what she means. She’s too angry. She presses on. “You’re free to have your concerns about us using all your precious resources for petty shit like _blackmail_ and _turf wars._ I can’t stop you. Well, I mean, I _could,_ but that’s beside the point. The point is that until you’ve had to see your best friend in the world seizing on a dirty warehouse floor, until you’ve learned what it feels like to have to flay him open hip to neck and pick spell shrapnel from a shattered hex knife out of his guts with your bare hands, until you’ve known what it means to be the only person _alive_ whose magic knows his well enough to not send his shade into immediate anaphylactic rejection if you cast something one-handed to try and keep him from bleeding out while you’re holding his chest closed with your other hand in the back of an ambulance, until you have to bring his four year old girl to his bedside and explain to her that her daddy might not make it through the night because the skirmish with a rival coven that was _your fucking idea in the first place_ turned ugly, until you’ve had to live with the fact that none of this would have even happened if any of you had known the _first fucking thing_ about hex knives, and the kind of damage that sort of battle magic can do, and how to treat it, instead of throwing every healing spell in the goddamn _books_ at it and watching them all just ricochet and crush his organs to a pulp? You don’t get to say _shit_ to me about life or death scenarios.”

Eliot’s eyes are closed, and he’s letting his cane take the bulk of his weight, but he looks strong, looks _grounded,_ and the line of his posture is that of defiance. She hears Fen’s voice in her mind, then, remembers what she’d said to Violet. _Your father’s a survivor._

Margo turns back to Dr. Quinn, expecting to catch her with her tail between her legs, but instead- she looks anguished, and remorseful, and pitying, and guilty, sure, but she hasn’t ducked her head or turned away in shame. She looks just as defiant as Eliot, somehow: eyes front, head high, shoulders straight, even now, even here, standing in the full weight of her mistake. Refusing to let it bow her.

It’s jarring enough that it brings Margo back to herself. “You were right to reach out to us first,” she says, quieter now, but no less firm. “My coven understands the _consequences_ of the stranglehold you motherfuckers have kept on _life or death_ information better than you ever could, Dr. Quinn. So no, you can’t take away the chronic pain he lives with now, and you can’t take away the memories his daughter has of seeing him with one foot in the grave, and you can’t take away the fear that every single hedge in my coven, in this whole goddamn city, felt when faced with the realization that we’re completely on our own, even when there’s shit out there that we have no clue how to protect ourselves from. You can’t take any of that back.”

“What can I do?” Dr. Quinn asks softly. Despite her mousy voice, the question somehow rings louder than anything else in the room.

“You can keep your judgmental comments to yourself, step the fuck up, and help me make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Margo says.

She leaves before Dr. Quinn can reply, Fray and Eliot hot on her heels.

\---

**QUENTIN, NOW. AUGUST. PORTLAND, OR.**

He’d been waiting all afternoon to get a call from the school, saying AJ was having a hard time, or fighting with Violet again, and asking if there was any way he could come and pick her up early. (AJ often has a hard time bouncing back from bad days. He can relate.)

So he’s honestly kinda surprised to find himself heading up to her school for pickup at the normal time, as though nothing had ever happened. There’s a few parents loitering on the sidewalk and front steps who seemed to have walked here like him, but most of the other parents are waiting in the pickup line. Sometimes not having a car is a pain in the ass- Portland’s public transit system is pretty solid, but it’s got nothing on New York. Granted, magic is a thing, so if there’s anywhere he really needs to go, he can always make it happen, even if it’s not accessible by lightrail. His neighborhood is a walkable one, too. Still, even though driving scares the shit out of him and he let his license expire years ago, he has to admit that there are times where driving would be more convenient. Looking at the pickup line, though, he’s pretty comfortable with his choices. School doesn’t let out for another ten minutes, but the stagnant string of indistinguishable SUVs is already overflowing past the parking lot and stretching halfway up the block.

He doesn’t even register that he’d been unconsciously scanning the pickup line for Eliot’s weird fancy car until he feels a momentary pang of disappointment at its absence, which- what the fuck, _no, Coldwater._ Jesus. He’s barely had one fucking conversation with the guy. He has _got_ to stop letting Jules get under his skin like that, holy shit.

But also, like. Yeah, maybe they’ve only had one conversation, but Quentin is still kind of reeling from it, a little bit? He’s pretty sure he managed to embarrass himself by being so- weirdly earnest, or whatever, because Eliot had definitely seemed a little startled by it, but he still doesn’t regret anything he said, honestly. It was definitely crossing a line and it was definitely super awkward, but he meant every bit of it- Eliot _was_ good with Violet, and he handled the whole situation with remarkable grace, even the bit towards the end where he snapped at her a little and immediately looked seasick and miserable having done so. Especially that bit, really. Quentin can understand how shitty it feels to have to yell at your kid sometimes. It sucks, it really does, but sometimes you’re running low on time and patience and better ways to get your point across. He gets it- the rare times he’s had to snap at Ada Jo over something, no matter how important that something is, he’s invariably felt like absolute shit about it afterwards, guilty and inadequate and scrabbling for some reminder that she’s okay, that he’s a good parent, that she still loves him, that he can do this, that he’s not fucking it all up. If he can be that reminder for someone else? He figures it’s worth a little momentary awkwardness.

Ordinarily, he’d be side-eyeing the _fuck_ out of Eliot, after hearing Violet say something that mean and awful to AJ, because nine times out of ten, kids learn shit like that at home. But Violet’s dad had looked about as thrown and horrified as Quentin had felt. He could have just been playing the part, but it _felt_ sincere. Either way, he’d corrected Violet swiftly, with zero hesitation, and that had been- kind of a lot? Quentin had been grateful for it at the time, absurdly so. Hell, he still is, even now, hours after the fact. He just hadn’t really expected anyone else to stand up for AJ? With the obvious exception of Jules every now and then, he’s pretty used to being the only one going to bat for his kid. So hearing someone else, a perfect stranger at that, defending his daughter, had been- striking, to say the least. It’d dredged up a bizarre primordial soup of jumbled parental instincts that he frankly still has no idea how to even _begin_ untangling. 

He makes a mental note to bring it up in therapy later.

The air fills with excited chatter as the school doors open, spilling forth streams of children in lines and clusters as teachers lead their classes down the steps and out to the pickup line. He watches for AJ’s class, and it’s not long before he spots Miss Plum shepherding her unruly gaggle of second graders down to the sidewalk. He scans his eyes over the line of kids, looking for AJ, but- he doesn’t see her? She’s not. There? Biting back an instinctive bolt of panic, he checks again, but she’s still nowhere to be found. He doesn’t see Violet standing with her classmates, either, so they’re both missing, which is- worrying, to say the least. _Fuck._ He’s about to walk over to Plum, but he doesn’t make it three steps down the sidewalk before someone touches his shoulder. 

Startled, he turns on his heel, only to collide head-on with Eliot Waugh. 

He stumbles back hurriedly, stammering out an apology. “Fuck, sorry, I didn’t-”

Eliot just smiles and holds up a hand, cutting him off. “You’re fine. That was my bad, didn’t mean to spook you. I always park in the lot and walk the rest of the way up, I’m pretty sure the pickup line counts as a secret tenth circle of hell.”

Quentin nods, shrugs, and turns back to the pickup line, which serves the double purpose of both letting him escape any awkward eye contact, and returning his focus to the more pressing matter at hand, which is that _his daughter is fucking missing and he has no idea where she is._ Panic crawls back up his throat. “It’s fine, sorry, I just? I can’t find AJ, I don’t see her anywhere, so-”

“Ah, yep,” Eliot says. “Violet too, I presume?” He says it calmly, sounding entirely too placid for a father discussing his child’s unknown whereabouts.

Quentin frowns. “Yeah, actually? I haven’t seen her either, so we should probably-”

“No need for an amber alert, Coldwater,” Eliot says. “At least not today. Follow me.”

\---

“What am I looking at, here?” Quentin says, gesturing over the fence and towards the playground. “Like, my eyes are showing me one thing, but my brain just? Does not compute.”

He looks over at Eliot, who’s leaning against the fence in a way that is just- _distracting,_ all legs and long lines. “Well, reality can be subjective, but from where I’m standing, it would certainly appear that our daughters are playing together,” he says drily. “Does that answer your question, Coldwater?” He raises his voice slightly to call out to the girls. “Careful, Vi. I would ideally like to avoid an ER trip, thank you!”

Quentin laughs as he watches AJ help Violet down from her questionably-stable perch atop a railing of the play structure, rolling his eyes a little. “Yeah, that cleared it right up, thanks. Seriously, though. I’m just surprised to see them getting along so well, given the whole enemies thing.”

“I’m not,” Eliot says, fishing something out of the pocket of his vest. “Violet bonds through antagonism. We’re working on it. She gets it from Margo.”

That startles another laugh out of Quentin, as Eliot takes a hit off what appears to be a vape pen, turning his head and blowing the smoke away from them. And, okay, like, Quentin doesn’t smoke anymore, not even socially, he quit years ago, and he thought he’d left the part of him that found smoking oddly attractive behind when he turned thirty, also they’re _literally_ on elementary school grounds, so lighting up is kind of super questionable? But as he watches Eliot take another hit, he realizes he’s staring anyway.

“I’d offer you a hit, but it’s just CBD,” Eliot says, gesturing vaguely to the cane that’s propped up against the fence beside him. “I happen to enjoy driving a manual with a persnickety clutch in downtown Portland traffic, because I’m a glutton for punishment. My leg, on the other hand, seems to have a different opinion on the matter.”

“Oh, okay, gotcha,” Quentin says. “I was gonna say. I skipped class to smoke behind the gym as much as the next kid, but second grade might be starting them a _little_ young.”

Eliot laughs, pocketing his pen again after just two hits. “Just a little.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence, and before he can fully think it through, Quentin finds himself saying “So, uh. Margo, is that your wife, or?”

Eliot smirks. “While she _is_ my better half and the love of my life, she’s also unfortunately a woman, so no. Best friend, honorary aunt.”

Quentin feels his face heating in embarrassment. “Ah, um, okay. Sorry.” He files that particular piece of information away as something to process _later,_ thank you very much.

“You’re fine, no need,” Eliot says easily, sounding faintly amused. He’s quiet for a moment, and then he continues, his voice gone low and soft. “No, it’s just us. Me and Violet, I mean.”

“Oh,” Quentin says. “Same, actually. It’s just AJ and I.”

“Huh,” Eliot says, thoughtfully. “You’re single?”

The question burns through him like lightning. “I don’t. I mean. Yes, but?” he manages to squeak out.

“As in single _parent,_ Coldwater, keep up,” Eliot says, grinning in a warm, wry way that tells Quentin he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing, and _Jesus,_ that smile.

“ _Oh,_ ” Quentin says, immensely grateful for the lifeline Eliot’s thrown him just now, even if it’s clearly mostly pretense. He follows it back to the shore of less stressful conversational topics. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Yep, yes, single dad. Well, I mean, AJ’s birth mom is still in our lives?”

Eliot smiles gently, tilting his head in curiosity. “Open adoption? You two look so much alike, I wouldn’t have guessed. I’ve always wondered what that’s like, to have a bio parent in the picture. Violet’s adoption was closed, so I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh, um. I’m probably not the right person to ask about that? AJ’s mine. Like, biologically, I mean, I’m her bio parent. Me and her birth mom. Actually, I shouldn’t say birth mom, she hates it when I call her that, because she’s always reminding me that that’s like, maybe kind of co-opting the language of adoptive families, and AJ’s not adopted, so, uh, sorry if that was, like, a shitty thing to say or anything? My bad. The English language doesn’t really have a good shorthand for ‘inadvertent egg donor slash spontaneous surrogate slash supportive ex girlfriend who has no interest in parenting but thinks you’d make a really good dad,’ or if it does, I haven’t found it yet. Maybe we should just invent one. Anyway. She’s still in the picture, but not in a parental capacity, really, just as, like. A family friend. AJ knows they’re related, though.”

Quentin has always wondered when he would finally manage to overshare enough to convince the ground to rise up and swallow him whole. He watches AJ chasing Violet up the play structure and down the slide, and he thinks today might be the day.

Eliot doesn’t look turned off by it, though, so at least there’s that. He mostly just looks curious. Quentin can’t really blame him. Everything he said just now was kind of a lot. “There’s probably not a good pre-existing catch-all term for that particular hyper-specific lived experience, no,” he jokes, sounding amused. “Wow. As nice as it is to meet another single dad, I’ve gotta hand it to you, Coldwater. You might be the first guy I’ve met with a family dynamic more complicated and Byzantine than my own. I’m kind of impressed. Can it be my turn now to ask the invasive personal questions, though? Because I have a few.”

Quentin laughs a little in spite of himself. “God, sorry, yeah, go for it. Fair’s fair.”

“Excellent. I have a feeling we’re going to get along just fine.”

Quentin turns to look at him, scoffing in disbelief even as he feels a smile spreading over his face of its own volition. “We basically just met each other.”

Eliot’s eyes flash with a good-natured smile as he leans in closer, as if to theatrically tell a secret, all faux-conspiratorial. “Well, I bond fast. Time is an illusion. Also, our daughters appear to be thick as thieves, and I can’t speak for AJ, but Violet is quite the clingy little tyrant when she wants to be, so unless you’ve got a crowbar, you’re probably stuck with both of us, I’m afraid.”

Quentin laughs, _really_ laughs, a full-bodied thing that practically claws itself out of his chest cavity. He hasn’t laughed like that in months. Julia was right, of course she was right, she always is. It’s been so absurdly long since the last time he made a friend. He’d forgotten what it’s like. “Let me guess,” he says. “She gets that from Margo too?”

“Along with all her other best and most charming qualities,” Eliot says dramatically with a dreamy sigh, sounding besotted and utterly genuine as he watches Violet pushing AJ on the swings. 

_You should give yourself some credit there too,_ Quentin thinks, as he gazes at Eliot in profile. Instead, he says “I can’t wait to meet her,” and as the words leave his mouth, he’s shocked to realize that they’re a hundred percent true.

Eliot grins, holding out a hand expectantly. “That was a test, and you passed. Give me your phone.”

It maybe says something about Quentin, that he immediately hands it over without a second thought. Eliot doesn’t look at all surprised, which maybe says something about _him,_ but. That’s another thought for later, and also beside the point.

Eliot passes it back a moment later, and Quentin’s looking through his recently sent texts for a new thread but coming up empty, figuring Eliot had texted himself from Quentin’s phone or something, when his phone buzzes with an incoming message from a contact labeled, unbelievably, _‘single DILF parkwood elementary (3:45pm monday august 28th) (tall, charming, GREAT hair)’_ followed by a single, solitary flame emoji. 

He sputters out a laugh that’s equal parts nervous, inexplicably delighted, and mildly horrified. “Hey, um, Eliot? What the fuck?”

“I wanted to avoid any possible confusion,” Eliot says innocently. “How am I supposed to know how many other single dads named Eliot are populating your contacts at any given moment? There could be hundreds. It’s a big world we live in, Quentin.”

“It’s just the one, right now, trust me,” Quentin replies drily, opening the message to see that it consists, in its entirety, of a single address that Eliot’s shared with him. “Why did you send me your address.”

“How else would you know where to bring AJ for playdates and yourself for wine-slash-Pictionary nights with Margo and I?”

“This has got to be one of the top five weirdest ways I’ve ever made friends with someone,” Quentin says mildly, “and I once-” he was about to say _befriended a girl by sharing our deepest traumas while we were both tied up and naked and covered in paint, right before we turned into geese and flew to the South Pole, where we had sex as foxes,_ but he cuts himself off just in time for the dawning realization to wash over him that he hasn’t made friends with a muggle since undergrad. Or, like. Since before Brakebills, really. It’s a daunting thought, considering exactly _how much_ of his life involves magic these days, between his work and Alice’s work and Jules’ work and AJ. It also stings a little bit, because as far as realizing how thoroughly your social skills have atrophied since college goes, it’s fairly pathetic.

“Good to know I’ve still got it,” Eliot quips lightly, clearly unoffended. “And here I was, worried that I might be losing my touch.”

“I think you’re good on that front,” Quentin deadpans. A thought occurs to him, then, and he turns to Eliot, raising an eyebrow. “Scale of one to ten, how ridiculous and embarrassing is my contact name in _your_ phone?”

Eliot grins and flashes his own screen, proudly displaying his text thread with a number saved blessedly and simply as _‘quentin 👑’._

Quentin suspects he wouldn’t be able to explain the bizarre, inexplicably warm rush of feeling it gives him even if he were being asked at knifepoint in a court of law by Judge Judy _and_ Julia Wicker _and_ every therapist he’s ever had (past, present, and future), under oath, left hand on a Word as Bond, right hand on a copy of Singing the Living Tradition (because literally who gives a shit about the Bible, _not him,_ that’s for sure).

“Well, that’s just unacceptable,” he says, pulling up Eliot’s contact in his own phone and pressing edit. “Clearly we need to match.” He scrolls to the very end of the unforgivably long string of _completely inane nonsense_ Eliot had typed for himself, and adds a simple _‘(Eliot Waugh.)’_ to the end of it. Or, well, he tries to. “If you’ve ever wondered if contact names have a character limit, the answer is yes. It’s however the fuck many you used plus, like, six more.”

“I try to answer at least one of life’s burning questions every day,” Eliot says.

“Hey,” Quentin says, fussing with the few extra character spaces he still has left at the end. Why he’s even bothering to preserve both the full length _and_ format of Eliot’s ridiculous contribution is _beyond him,_ but he’s like. Kind of attached to it now, sue him. “Can I call you El?”

The slow grin that spreads over Eliot’s face is all the answer he needs to type his own addendum.

_(El.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading!! i hope y’all liked this chapter, i’m working on chapter 6, which will hopefully start to lay some of the foundation for the central plot of this story. it was so fun finally getting to write alice again, and to finally write margo POV and really dig into the hedgewitch lore, and the queliot banter at the end of this chapter turned out so much more fun than i was originally envisioning it. as always, comments and kudos (but especially comments) mean the world! i’m on tumblr @jordxnhennessy.

**Author's Note:**

> general notes: thank you for reading, i hope you've enjoyed your time spent in this story. comments & kudos are always appreciated! rating may go up eventually. i have the whole of this story mapped out, planned, and outlined thoroughly, so i fully intend on seeing this one through to the end. as always, a million thank yous to my wonderful girlfriend, for helping me untangle the full shape of this story in my head so that i could put it to paper. love you baby, you're simply the best.
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @jordxnhennessy.


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